


Idle Fancies: The Dalliance Drabble

by thebananahasspoken



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Acceptance, Bad Sans, Dalliance related, Death, Drabbles, Drunk!Frisk, Drunk!Sans, Dry Humping, Enough Is Enough, Escape, F/M, Genocide, Groping, Horror, Illness, Light Petting, Longing, Loss, Making Out, Manipulation, Murder, PTSD, Recovery, Regret, Something cute, Soul Sex, Soup, Suicide, Trauma, Underage Drinking, Violence, asks from tumblr, bad monster, confusion in the dark, dubcon, gonna be lots of genre, little gross, lots of tags, mending wounds, noncon, snuggles, young!frisk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 08:10:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7883386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebananahasspoken/pseuds/thebananahasspoken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various prompts I receive on Tumblr, related to my fanfiction Dalliance. Most, if not all, are non-canon. All for fun and speculation. </p><p>Feel free to submit some prompts of your own, either here or on Tumblr. I will write ones that I find inspiration from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Down with the Sickness

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dalliance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6091111) by [thebananahasspoken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebananahasspoken/pseuds/thebananahasspoken). 



> Here we are, at the long promised Dalliance drabble fic. I'll be posting here fairly regularly, I think... I already have a few drabbles written, and will be accepting more prompts both here and on my Tumblr account. These drabbles range from friendship moments to intimate scenes to graphic horror. It all depends on my mood, the prompt, and how tired I am when I'm writing it XD warnings here are for strong language, sexual content, and mentions of rape.
> 
> Also, many of the stories may mention future events in Dalliance, ones that have not yet been established in story. Not to worry, they are inessential and mere detail, you're not missing much, I promise.
> 
> Be ye younger than 18? Turn thy butt around, this drabble set is not for yer young eyes.
> 
> My Tumblr, for submissions, story updates, skele sins, and other such things.  
> http://thebananafrappe.tumblr.com/

* * *

Anonymous asked: Here's a scenario: Frisk gets really sick, and Fell keeps her room dark so she can rest. One time, when he checks on her, she's awake and delirious. With the room dark, Fell looks like Sans to her, so she begins to give him unbridled affection.

 

* * *

 

Sans tapped his foot and rearranged the crackers on the tray again, gaze set on the flat surface of the broth in the pot he was waiting on impatiently.

This was taking too long. He had already been downstairs for twenty minutes, had gone to fetch ice and water and food for the sick girl languishing in his bed, and he couldn’t help but assume the worst.

What if she had fallen out of bed?

What if she had gotten herself tangled in the sheets again?

What if she had gotten even _sicker_?

His worries were constant, gnawing at his mind incessantly, and with a growl of petulance rattling his rib cage and a scowl of agitation lowing his mouth into a glower, the anxious skeleton monster snatched up the wooden spoon sitting next to the stove-top, stirring the pot sloppily and not caring that he splashed soup onto the wall and counter and the front of his sweater.

He would clean up later. There were more important things to worry about.

Sneering at the stubbornly taciturn liquid, Sans tossed the spoon into the bowl of the sink dismissively and turned the burner up, propping his hands on his hips and huffing intolerantly.

Why did she have to be so damn _difficult_?

This never would have happened if Frisk had just listened to him, had just obeyed him when he forbade her from staying out all day decorating the stupid fucking Christmas tree; sure, it had made the village children happy, and had probably kept Gyftrot from going on another rampage (not that he cared about what the filthy heathen felt; as long as the irritable deer monster didn’t get any ideas about his mate-to-be, he couldn’t care less what he did), but he knew her game better than she thought he did.

She was so stubborn, so determined to challenge him just to spite him; she got her kicks making him sweat and agonize over her, loved to watch him turn red in the face and push his buttons.

A rueful smile lifted the corner of his frown minutely as he looked down at the softly steaming surface of the broth in front of him, the reminder that he found her petulance just as hot as he found it annoying buoying his spirits momentarily (she was never sexier than when she was flaunting his rules and exhibiting the Determination of her soul, the closest she had come to flirting with him), but his amusement was short lived, a ragged cough from upstairs dragging him back down.

He glanced up at the ceiling, worry clear in his gaze, then dropped his face into his hands, shoulders drooping and teeth clenching in frustration.

He had never felt as powerless, as _useless_ , as he had been the past few days, watching Frisk grow sicker and fluctuate between deathly hot and pallid cold; no cold compress was enough to soothe her fevers, no pile of blankets thick enough to dismiss her chills.

She had been unable to eat, stomach so upset that it couldn’t keep anything but water down… she had been delirious each time she woke enough to try to talk, calling out blindly for relief while he sat beside her in the dark, desperate to hold her but scared to at the same moment.

Sans had been extremely lucky that Papyrus had found the book on human illnesses that he had (he had appropriated it, and a bottle of a human medicine called Nyquil, of all things, from Gerson just that morning), now able to create the remedies that the bedridden girl needed.

He had grown despairing the longer she was sick, none of the magical cures common with their kind affecting her… the soup he had made, loaded with “vitamins” and “anti-oxidants”, would supposedly help her.

It had better. He wasn’t sure he could make it much longer with her so ill… he wasn’t sure she could make it much longer either.

Humans were so frail, so easily defeated by seemingly innocuous things like lack of air or too much magic or even a malfunction in their own biology; he had read, in the book that Papyrus had gotten him, that humans could catch diseases that used their own body’s defenses against them, could have their flesh mutate and attack its own, and even die during childbirth.

He was doing his best to not consider the latter, to not wonder at how her body would cope with bearing children when and if that time came for them (he wanted it to, so badly that it hurt, but he couldn’t get too anxious, had to stay in the now; he couldn’t afford to be impatient, not with her, never again).

He wasn’t prepared for the possibility of losing her, not when he had just found her.

Sans, shaking his morbid thoughts away and rubbing the back of a sweat beaded hand across his sunken, shadowed sockets lethargically (he hadn’t slept in days, too worried about Frisk to even close his eyes for more than five minutes at a time), turned the heat off under the now merrily bubbling soup, tipping the fragrant herbal liquid into the bowl waiting on the tray.

He didn’t bother walking back upstairs, too impatient to be back at his human’s side once again, and instead flashed himself straight to his bedside as soon as he hefted the tray, immediately setting it down again on his bedside table (swiping used tissues and empty Sea Tea bottles into the trash as he did) so he could inspect the lump of human occupying the center of his bed.

Frisk, clearly in the middle of one of her fevers, had kicked all of her sheets and blankets to the floor, a sheen of sweat coating her skin and a bright red flush spread across her cheekbones; she was clutching a pillow in one arm, drool trickling onto it from her parted lips, and had the other thrown over her eyes, clearly irritated by a sliver of light that had snuck through the mostly closed drapes.

Tugging the curtains shut thoughtlessly, Sans shuffled to the end of the bed to retrieve the discarded blankets, gaze dutifully averted from Frisk’s body now that he had assured she wasn’t in dire danger.

He kept his eyes on his feet, stepping over a small pile of discarded socks, because Frisk had not only divested herself of the blankets, but her pants as well, leaving her clothed only in an oversized t-shirt, the large neckline falling off one shoulder and the hem twisting halfway up her chest (from her tossing and turning, more likely than not), and a pair of lacy red panties.

The darkness would have hidden her intimately bared form from a human, but monsters’ eyesight was not inhibited by lack of light, and as such he had full view of her bared, languidly extended legs, the curved undersides of her breasts, and the scarred outline of his mark on her shoulder; his magic burned hot through his bones at just the sight of her, even sick as she was.

There was a reason he had confined himself to sleeping in his desk chair, rather than insisting on spending the nights beside her… she was a siren, a temptress in as simple a garment as one of his old, holey t-shirts (he adored it when she succumbed to wearing his clothes, when she would forget to wash hers in time; his scent would linger on her for days afterwards, a much-needed boost to his ego), and he didn't trust the throb of his energy or the itchiness of his palms around her when things like this happened.

He felt like a monster starved, hungry to feel her skin under his hands, her body against his again…

He was determined to earn his way into her good graces, though, to win his place at her side and in her bed (even if it technically was his), and he had been doing very well so far, even with the temptation that their exchanges offered him.

Their bargains, the deals they made to get what the other wanted, were enticing in their potential, would be so, _so_ easy to take advantage of (if he offered the right freedoms, it was possible he could even get her to have sex with him again…), but he had never asked for more than a kiss, most of their dealings ending in as simple means as her hand curled in his, his arm around her shoulders while she sat beside him on the couch.

He was trying his damnedest to behave himself, but sometimes…

It was so hard to avoid asking too much, to keep from looking too long, when she was so tantalizingly close, but he knew what the invitation of looking led to, remembered too well what he was still working to remedy (he flinched, reliving the blood on his hands, her broken cries for mercy, the hatred in her eyes), and as such kept his gaze down, plucking at the rumpled, balled up sheets on the floor and dragging them back up over Frisk’s stretched out legs.

She stirred at the contact of the cooled material against her sweat dotted skin, shifting the back of her arm against her sleep-crusted eyes, and Sans, smiling regretfully to himself at the tiny groans she let out as she stretched (every sound she made was a turn on to him at this point, so pent up that even the scent of her, sweaty and unshowered, was making his bones ache in need), settled himself on the edge of his mattress, doing his best to not disturb the resting girl.

His weight shifted her nevertheless, and upon feeling the dip in the bed, Frisk twitched, humming groggily and removing her arm from her face to crack her eyes open, staring blearily into the murky darkness of the room at his shadowed figure.

“Hnnn… Sans? ‘s that you?” she murmured throatily, voice scratchy from disuse and dryness, and Sans, wincing at the painful sounding cough she let out, reached for the glass of water on the tray he had brought with him.

“yeah, it’s me,” he whispered, nudging the back of her closest hand with the bottom of the sweating tumbler, and, with a strained moan of exertion, she dragged herself up to recline on the pile of pillows set against his headboard (he slid his free hand under her shoulder to help her up gently, and was mildly stunned when she let him, as she usually refused his assistance with anything and everything), taking the glass in shaking hands and sipping at it.

“Where… where did you go? You were gone so long…” she muttered once she had drunk enough (he took the glass from her after a few moments, not wanting her to rush herself), and, surprised by the tenderness and worry in her voice (it must be his tired, amorous imagination), the weary skeleton shifted on his perch, wishing he could reach out to smooth her sleep mussed hair but holding himself back.

“went to make some soup for ya. found a recipe, and some medicine, from your people. it’ll help ya feel better,” he grunted, running a clawed fingertip over the stitching of his shorts, then nearly jumped out of his bones when one of Frisk’s hands, sweaty and shaking, scrabbled to clutch at his, her small fingers sliding between his and clenching tightly.

"You didn't have to do that, baby… you don't need to worry about me so much. You always blame yourself when I get sick… please try to rest. You must be so tired," she pled with him weakly, lifting his hand to her face and rubbing her cheek against the back of it, and Sans, utterly flabbergasted, could only stare at her, the softness of her feverishly warm skin against his bones both welcome and worrying.

She had never called him anything like that before, and definitely wasn’t in the habit of holding his hand without him bargaining it from her, much less nuzzling into his touch _willingly_ ; she must be confused, perhaps even be dreaming.

Cautious and worried but selfishly unwilling to pull away, Sans tentatively brushed his thumb against her cheekbone, scooting a little further onto the bed carefully.

“i, uh… gotta take care of you, first. let’s get some soup and medicine in ya, and then maybe i’ll be able to rest… can’t sleep for worryin’ that you won’t be worse when i wake up,” he admitted tenderly, giving in to the ache in his chest that begged him to _touch her more_ and brushing a hank of sweat-sodden bangs from her forehead with his free hand.

Frisk smiled up at him through the dark blissfully, eyes half lidded and tongue peeking between her lips to wet them (his breath shortened, gaze whipping away as quickly as he could make it), and pressed a breathy kiss to his knuckles, lingering and slow and so, so soft.

He couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe, his soul was pulsing through his ribs, his magic was setting him aflame… what was happening? What had caused this? Did she have any idea what she was _doing_ to him?

Could it be that she was finally, _impossibly_ , accepting him?

“I knew you were worrying yourself to death, you… you dork. I’m so lucky to have you, honey… I’ve never been better taken care of. I love you,” she whispered against the back of his hand, assured and happy and looking at him with peaceful, blurry eyes, and that was when the illusion broke, her profession of love too far for even his hopeful imagination to reach.

She thought he was the other Sans, delusional in her fever and blind in the dark.

Bitterness gnawed at his soul, stealing his encouraged and idyllic fantasy away and replacing it with emptiness and venom.

It took all of the control he had in him not to rip his hand out of hers, needing space to cope with his disappointment but knowing, in her illness, that Frisk would not understand his distance.

So Sans, anger and sadness and awful inevitability filling his forcefully uplifted grin (fake, fake, fake, thank the stars she was too sick to notice), averted his eyes again and lifted the bowl of cooling broth from the tray with his free hand, settling it on his lap and then trying, reluctantly, to pull his hand from her grasp.

She refused to let go, though, whimpering and blinking up at him in confusion.

“Wait, where are you going? You just came back…” she stammered, loneliness and confusion in her bewildered query as she clutched his hand to her chest (the bared skin from the drooping neckline of her shirt pressed against the back of his hand, sending a jolt of awareness and heat through his bones), so Sans stopped, warring feelings of temper and guilt pulling at his mind.

It wasn’t her fault that he had thought the wrong thing… it never was, every time he went too far and she pulled back or rejected him flat out.

He had no right to his anger. She was allowed to reject him, to think more fondly of her boyfriend than of him.

Fucker.

So, sighing, the virulently stewing monster scooted closer to the worried girl on his bed instead of storming away and kicking the sawdust out of a pine tree like he wanted, lifting the bowl in his grasp in emphasis before realizing that she couldn't see it and set it back down, his grimace deepening.

“i’m not goin’ anywhere. we gotta getcha fed so you can take your medicine and rest, ‘member?” he growled brusquely, his anger leaking into his tone against his will (he cursed under his breath, trying to push his upset down until he could be alone and let out his resentment in a more constructive manner), and Frisk stilled at the hardness in his voice, shrinking against her pillows meekly.

Her chin fell, her gaze lowering to her sheet covered knees, and Sans felt his soul clench in intense remorse, the sadness in her eyes not worth his childish petulance.

When would he stop fucking things up with her?

Beside him, Frisk swallowed thickly, raising her free hand to brush her hair behind her ear, and glanced back at him hesitantly, biting her lower lip and shifting her soft fingertips over his rough carpals.

“Are… are you mad at me? I know it’s silly, but… you sound upset, and… you didn’t say that you loved me back…” she breathed out shakily, her lower lip trembling and her voice breaking in her dejection, and Sans cringed, feeling lower than the scummiest, trash littered pool in Waterfall.

He was utter garbage to make her feel like this, especially when she was ill, _especially_ when she didn’t know what she was saying; he needed to get a grip, no excuse good enough to justify his behavior (he was a grown ass monster, he could handle himself better than this), and as such cleared his throat gruffly, shaking away his resentment as best he could and squeezing his human’s hand in his.

“…course not, sugar. i’m sorry. i… course i love you. i’m just tired and worried, is all. just want ya to get better,” he muttered quietly, apologetic and flushing at his admission (he hadn’t told her that yet, hadn’t found a time or place good enough to declare the depth of his feelings), and Frisk, brightening visibly, sat up out of her slouch with a light cough.

She fidgeted with the neckline of her shirt for a moment, pulling it up her shoulder modestly but only causing the front to pool low enough to bare her cleavage (Sans breathed in heavily through his nasal cavity, allowing himself a glance at the curves of her breasts before looking pointedly away), then pressed her lips together tightly, smiling hopefully and tightening her fingers between his.

“…kiss me?” she requested plaintively, dipping her chin and looking up through her eyelashes at him coquettishly, and in his chest, Sans’s soul throbbed, pushing at his consciousness and demanding he answer to his lover’s desires.

His gaze darted to Frisk’s parted lips, warm and wet and so, so inviting (he never got enough of her kisses, the one grudging press of her mouth to his per day doing nothing but leaving him hungry for more); he could feel the pull of desire, how easy it would be to lean in, taste the sweetness of her panting breath, drown in the heat of her flesh against his bones.

But he couldn’t.

Sans forced himself to look away, to fix his gaze on the sleep tousled silhouette of her hair, and to pull back from how far he had unconsciously bent towards her, swallowing thickly at a lump of withheld longing.

She still thought he was the other Sans, her precious, saintly _boyfriend_ (he sneered, hatred rearing its head), didn’t want _him_ to kiss her; doing so now, in her confused and sickened state, would be a betrayal of the trust he had been rebuilding with her.

He had to be strong. This was not an invitation, not meant for him. Patience… he had to be patient…

Even if that was the last damn thing he wanted to do.

“sweetheart, no. ya need to get better, not… do stuff that’ll make ya sicker,” he excused when her face fell as he made no move to do as she had asked, doing his best to not consider what that “stuff” was and again trying to pull his hand out of hers (she had quite a grip, damn…), but Frisk clung to him stubbornly, almost falling sideways off her pillowed perch in her defiance.

She pouted her lip out at his denial, an unconscious tic of hers that never failed to make him want to bite down on it, to listen to her whine in the pleasure pain he _knew_ she liked; as sick and twisted and horrifying as the night that he had violated her had been, he had still learned a great deal about what pleased her, remembered her moans when he had dug his claws into her skin, how she had gasped when he had…

 _No_. He needed to stop, _now._

He was literally sweating now, needle sharp gaze pinned to his lap and breath short in his chest, tight with heat and want (he thought of cold showers, Temmie Flakes, the time he had walked in on Papyrus screwing that four armed freak of a robot on the kitchen table, anything to calm him down); he breathed in deeply, trying to settle his riled magic.

He could do this… he _hadn’t_ just breathed in more of her scent, spiked with a new, tantalizing longing…

Stars save him.

Much to his own satisfaction, and despite his inner struggles (she was going to be the death of him, he just knew it…), he didn’t give in to Frisk’s unconscious allure, stubbornly pushing her back down onto her pillows and again trying to retrieve his hand from her grasp.

She had no intention of letting him escape, however, pressing his hand to her chest (and, consequentially, between her breasts, the heat and softness against his bones, along with the barest brush of her skin on his fingertips, nearly making him gasp aloud) and looking up at him pleadingly, her want clear in her hazy eyes.

“Please, Sans, it’s just a kiss… and I… well, you haven’t kissed me in so long. I really miss them…” she implored, a bead of sweat falling from her temple to streak down her jaw, only wetting her shining skin more, and Sans, in his own personal hell of temptation and rapture ( _fuck_ , she was too naïve… if he curved his fingers, he’d be grasping one of her breasts, a pleasure he thought of on a daily basis), felt his will crumbling, her simple request too much for his overpowered, somnolent senses.

She was right… what harm was a kiss?

They kissed all the time, their bargain notwithstanding; he wouldn’t be outside of reason, especially considering their trades.

Especially since she had asked.

He knew what he was doing even as he made his excuses, that he was twisting the circumstances to suit his desires, but he ignored the sense of wrong that prodded at him, guilt a far off concern.

It was just a kiss.

Determined and eager, excitement building in his chest, Sans leaned over the pouting, tenacious girl and looked into her eyes seriously, his gaze flicking to her lips and then back; his closeness made her breath draw short as well, exhalations hot against his mouth.

“soup and medicine first. then i’ll kiss the fuck outta ya,” he vowed, tone a sonorous growl of dark promise, and Frisk let out a quiet gasp of exhilaration, her cheeks darkening and her eyes dropping shyly.

Hot _damn_ , did he like when she blushed…

“O-oh… mmm, yeah, okay,” she stammered, breathy and quiet as she tried to recover from her reaction to his offer (he could feel her heart beating rapidly against her ribs, her blood rushing arousal through her veins and setting his senses on fire), and this time relinquished his hand when he pulled back on it gently.

Sans, glorying in her response to him (she slipped, occasionally, showing that she wasn’t always immune to him, that she though more of him than just her captor; he lived for those moments, their appearances giving him heart and confidence in the constant storm of her rejections), stirred the bowl of cooling soup in his grasp, holding back a smirk as best he could.

Now was not the time for smugness… he couldn’t get carried away.

Soul buoyed nevertheless, bleeding contentment and anticipation into his bones (he had missed her kisses too, a week too long to be starved of them, in his opinion), Sans scooped a spoonful of broth up and pressed it to her lips, hope of this being the cure to her illness only adding to his exuberance.

Frisk made no fuss about eating the soup like she had with everything else he had presented to her, sipping from the spoon with both grace and eagerness (she must be starving… he’d have to make more for her dinner, if she managed to keep it down), and before long the bowl was empty of all but the saturated dregs of the herbs he had bought from the store in town and a few drops of the broth.

He watched Frisk for a moment after he had set the bowl aside, fiddling with the top on the bottle of syrupy purple medicine as he waited to see if she was going to be able to handle the soup; she had regained some of her color, with her meal, and though her eyelids were drooping, sated from the warm liquid, she watched him in return through the darkness, clearly remembering his promise.

He couldn’t resist his smirk this time, reading the faded back of the bottle in his hands to find the dosage she would need.

It felt extremely good to have her wanting for him, to know that she was waiting, with baited breath, for him to kiss her.

Finally finding the instructions for the medicine, written in obscenely tiny print on the inside of the label (ridiculous… why would you print instructions where you couldn’t find them?), Sans pulled the lid and safety wrapping from the bottle before tipping the liquid inside into the spoon he had used for the soup, carefully measuring it out.

Frisk made a face at the smell that wafted from the bottle, though, grimacing and turning her head away.

“Ugh, I hate syrup medicines. They taste so awful…” she complained, already shuddering at the thought of having to take it, and Sans, amused by her childishness (he had had this discussion with Papyrus when he was young), raised a brow, looking appraisingly at the thick medicine.

He could kill two birds with one stone, this way…

“what if i mixed it with a little sugar?” he asked coyly, glancing down at Frisk as he did, and when she rolled over to look back towards him curiously, interest piqued, he called to his magic, summoning his tongue…

And poured the medicine into his own mouth, catching it on his tongue and holding it there.

She hadn’t been wrong… this shit was terrible.

Scowling at the taste (some awful concoction that reeked of rotten berries and tar), Sans set the sticky spoon and bottle down on his bedside table before bending over the blushing figure of his mate-to-be (it was dark enough for her to see the medicine pooled in the center of his glowing tongue, revealed by his parted jaw), bumping his nasal ridge against her nose sweetly.

She got the hint, parting her lips and arching up to meet him, and Sans closed the distance, pressing his mouth to hers and pushing the syrup from his mouth to hers, dragging his tongue across her lips slowly and keeping her close with a hand to her cheek as he did.

Frisk made no complaints as she swallowed the medicine, tiny noises that sounded like groans escaping her; one of her hands rose from her side to grasp at his shoulder, her other burying in the material of his sweater, next to his ribs.

He meant to end it there, the exchange enough to satisfy him and, hopefully, her.

He meant to keep the kiss short, vaguely impersonal… at the very least, no longer than five seconds.

But five seconds turned to ten.

And ten to twenty.

Sans did pull back, at twenty-five, meaning to sit back and end the kiss, already having gone further than he had intended to, but caught the look in her fluttering eyes, her hands pulling at the back of his neck and curled in his sweater, and leaned back in instead, the hand he had laid on her cheek sliding back to weave into her hair.

He prompted her lips to move against his mouth, the warmth and taste of her overwhelming the oversweet, cloying flavor of the medicine quickly; he scooted further onto the bed, lowering himself to the sheets at her side to deepen the kiss.

Each moment he promised himself that he would pull away passed by unheeded, her minute moans and stroking hands distracting him from his purpose… each time he thought he would have the strength to leave her embrace, she drew him in further.

He replied in kind, without question, when her tongue extended past her lips to stroke along the tip of one of his fangs, his own extending to trail along her lips again.

He shouldn’t have, though, because once he met her tongue with his, sliding them together and exchanging saliva rife with the taste only she possessed (he could do this all day, just to have the flavor of her in his head), Frisk started to get bolder, the heat already surging in her blood spiking.

She clung to him, sucked provocatively at his sinuous tongue (he nearly choked on his breath, his soul throbbing with need and desire), ran one of her hands all the way down his spine… tugged a leg free of the sheets to throw over his hip.

He was starting to forget himself in the heat of the moment, what he had meant to keep this encounter; his hands had started to wander too, moving from the softness of her hair to pull at the neckline of her shirt, tracing over the scars of his mark… trailing down her side to clutch her hip, thumbing at the lacy hem of her panties.

He ached to move against her, to let her have her way with him… she was so soft, so warm, so beautiful, and all _his_ , wearing his clothes and sleeping in his bed and redolent with the perfume of her lust for him.

It would be so easy, so, _so_ simple, to succumb…

He jerked himself from his licentious stupor, however, when Frisk ran her fingers beneath his sweater to trail the tip of a forefinger over his iliac crest, the shock of the sensation driving his momentary madness from his mind.

No. No, he couldn’t do this to her again. She would never forgive him for using her when she thought he was someone else.

Sans pulled back immediately, his hand moving to stop the progression of her invading fingers on his pelvis (he didn’t want her to stop, not really, but she had to); he set her arm at her side, panting just as heavily as the flushed, fidgeting girl spread on the bed was.

Frisk resisted his silent rebuke, arching towards him and trying to reconnect their mouths, but he leaned away, sitting up and scooting away from her.

He hated to disappoint her, was _burning_ with the need to give her what she wanted, but pushed her back again when she reached for him, a firm denial his voice was not capable of at the moment (he didn’t trust himself to say what needed to be said and not, instead, encourage her further).

He needed to calm down. He would _not_ ruin his progress by betraying her trust again. He had more control than that.

Supposedly.

Frisk was not satisfied with his removal from her, though, running her hands over him and rubbing her bare thigh along his femur needily (he pushed her leg away by the knee, hastily covering her back up with the sheet before he was tempted to look too long at her bared flesh).

“Sans, _no_ … please, come back…” she begged waveringly, whimpering with desire, but he responded by scooting further away from her grasping hands, swallowing thickly at the husky, needy response that sprang to the tip of his tongue.

‘ _be careful what you ask for, sweetheart…’_

“i… i think we’d better stop there, sugar. things are gettin’ a bit too heavy…” he said instead, swinging his feet to the floor when she started to trace her hand up his leg, his magic pooling in his groin more quickly than he was happy with.

Shit… he’d brought this on himself, he knew he had, but stars damn him to the void, the _last_ thing he needed right now was a hard on.

Frisk wasn’t listening to him, though, pulling herself towards him and pressing herself to his side earnestly; her hand inched up his femur, her tongue swiping over her lower lip.

“I don’t care… please, I want more…” she whispered, her eyes looking up to his sockets with incredible heat (he was getting a contact high from her just looking at him like that, the fire in her eyes travelling straight between his legs) and her hand adventuring too close to his crotch; he grabbed her hand again, stopping her from touching where he really, _really_ wanted her to.

 _Fuck_ , he was losing his mind…

“sweetheart, stop. ya need to rest. you asked for a kiss, and i gave ya one… or two. that’s enough for now,” he insisted, placing her hand back at her side again, but now Frisk was shaking her head, sitting up the rest of the way and sliding her legs over his, seating herself in his lap with a look of determined seduction.

Her center, hot and inviting and _wet_ (damnit… damnit, he could feel it through his fucking pants…), rubbed against his now fully formed cock, her body reclining against his chest to press her breasts to his ribs and her lips to his vertebrae.

Her hips gyrated against his, intentional and slow, and it was all he could do not to moan like a schoolboy.

“Touch me. _Please_ … I want to feel you… I want you so bad…” she muttered against his neck, her tongue (her tongue… **_fuck_** …) flicking against the protrusions of his spinal cord, and Sans almost, _almost_ gave in.

She was so tempting… so hot and needy and he wanted her too, so, so _bad…_

It physically pained him to grasp her by the shoulders, push her away from his body, and look seriously into her lust hazed eyes.

“ _no_ , frisk. ya need sleep, not sex,” he growled forcefully, shaking her lightly when she strained against his hands, trying to press her body to his again; he lifted her from his lap and laid her back on her pillows pointedly, getting up immediately afterwards and stepping away from the bed.

He needn’t have worried, though; all the fight left Frisk upon his firm command, only disappointment and half-hearted longing lingering in her eyes, her cheeks flushed with the heat of her fever and her embarrassment both.

She watched him right his clothes through the darkness of the room, pulling at the rumpled sheets to untuck them from beneath her, then wrapped them around her body until only her face was exposed, her eyes lowering to the spot he had occupied a moment ago.

She was quiet while Sans gathered the dishes from her lunch together on the tray he had brought up, coughing lightly, but spoke up when he started to pick up the tray.

“Sans?” she called out softly, the medicine clearly already working on her; she was blinking rapidly, sleep hanging heavy over her eyes.

He looked over at her warily, still beating back the desire to jump her (he was definitely going to need a cold shower after _that_ …), but went to her side obediently, reaching out to touch her cheek so she knew he was near.

“yeah, sweetheart? feelin’ okay after… after the soup?” he inquired just as quietly, pulling his hand away from her immediately after touching her (just the feel of her skin against his bones was reigniting the spark, his persistent, damning erection twitching without his consent), and Frisk nodded, reaching through the blankets to rub at her eyes.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I just wanted to… I wanted to ask if you would lay with me, just for a while. I know it’s hard for you too, after we’ve been… intimate… I know you don’t want to risk hurting me, that you want to wait. But please… I just want to lay next to you,” she plead sleepily, extending a hand to pat the space next to her, and Sans lowered his gaze to follow the movement, knowing he had to leave but wanting nothing more than to stay.

He was not in control of himself… he couldn’t take the risk of going too far again…

Was that why he was already lying down, reaching out to hold her hand between his?

“yeah, i’ll stay. as long as it takes for ya to fall asleep. …ya do drive me crazy though, honey. make me lose my mind, wantin’ ya so bad. you’re just too sexy, even sick as a dog,” he whispered to her, tracing the lines on her palm with the tip of a finger.

Frisk smiled at that, letting her eyes drift shut.

“You do the same thing to me, baby. Guess we’re both in the same boat there…” she yawned, clasping her fingers around his, and drifted off to sleep within minutes, the first peaceful rest she had had in a week.

When she woke eight hours later, her cough gone and head clear, she lay in the night darkened room by herself for a time before going downstairs, smiling at the fuzzy but pleasant memory of her beloved kissing her senseless.

She never questioned, in the dream or her illness, why her shadowy lover’s magic had been red.


	2. Whiskey Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fell tried to get a little handsy, got shut down, and stormed off to get drunk. His return is less than dignified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One that I had already written on Tumblr, but wanted to add to the collection.
> 
> No significant warnings for this one, as short as it is (I'm hoping to keep all of these relatively short, but it really depends on where my imagination takes me), but I do warn that there will be explicit content further into this. If you are younger than 18, please step away from the drabble fic.
> 
> My Tumblr, for suggestions, status updates, skele sins, and other shenanigans.  
> http://thebananafrappe.tumblr.com/

* * *

Dimension-Scrambler asked: Oh, gosh, I can see it: Fell stumbling into the shed (or where ever), drunk and blubbering, begging to hold her in a weepy, slurred voice. She lets him to make him stop crying, and he just cuddles with her all night, drooling in her hair, whispering about how good she is.

* * *

Frisk takes a long time to fall asleep that night, once Sans has settled against her back, spooning her with his arms around her stomach and one of his legs slid between hers. His breath is hot and reeks of whiskey as he exhales against the back of her neck, the bones of his exposed rib cage are almost too warm through her sleeping shirt, and his hands are a little too invasive where they have settled on her hip and just under her breasts, but she doesn’t move.

He had apologized to her for yelling at her, for punching the wall, for trying to kiss her when she had said no, and had looked so sad and alone… he was an angry, violent, impulsive monster, but he didn’t deserve to be alone, especially not tonight, not when he needed her.

Sans, shifting against Frisk’s back, grunted in his drunken slumber, pressing a sloppy, drooly kiss against the back of her neck.

“‘m so sorry, sugar… didn’ mean ta… such a good girl… love… just a lil’ longer… need ya…” he muttered, squeezing her in his grip and making her jump in surprise at the sound of his gruff voice, and glanced over her shoulder at his sleep slackened face, his jaw hanging open and a drip of red tinted drool trailing down his mandible.

It was always so strange, these days, to see him without that fake smile on his skull, without anger or weariness or jealousy in his expressions… she didn’t like thinking it, but she liked him, just a little bit, the more he showed her his reasonable, soft side, the more he tried to be better, even if he failed like he had tonight.

She reached a hand over her shoulder, shakily and hesitantly, to brush her fingertips over his softened brow, the rasp of bone familiar but also foreign. He really was trying… their bargains, lately, had been keeping him in a good mood, so perhaps that was skewing her perspective, but she felt that he was really changing, at least insofar as when it came to him forcing himself on her.

Frisk ignored the twinge in her chest as she looked at him, a small, quickly smothered smile pulling at the corner of her lips when he let out a snort and mumbled to himself about work; she had to work really hard to keep herself aloof, with all the intimacy he was bargaining from her, with how he made her feel when he touched her and kissed her and showed her that he was better than his violence and cruelty.

She couldn’t afford to get attached, had to be careful with how much she let herself feel; she had to get back to her Sans, had to remember her plan, no matter how much she was starting to…

No. It didn’t matter.

Until she could figure out a way to convince him to let her break the barrier, she just had to put up with this, grit her teeth and keep herself above her silly notions.

Withdrawing her hand, Frisk turned back over and settled against her pillow, letting Sans pull himself closer and bury his face in her hair and murmur another whisper of apology and adoration against her neck, his hips pushing against her backside, lightly enough to not alarm her.

She fell asleep in his arms, more comfortable than she liked to admit, and awoke the next morning to an empty bed, a scribbled note with a simple apology and a poorly drawn red heart her only company.

She tucked the note into her pocket when she went downstairs, and never noticed the smile that she wore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggestions welcome, either at my Tumblr page or here!


	3. B A D  E N D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans made a mistake. Now, he has to pay for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC GORE, CHARACTER DEATH, PSYCHOSIS, SUICIDE, AND MENTIONS OF RAPE. DO NOT CONTINUE IF YOU ARE UNDERAGE, OR DO NOT WANT TO READ SUCH THINGS. IT REALLY IS QUITE HORRIBLE.
> 
> I am so sorry.
> 
> My Tumblr, for suggestions, story updates, fan art, skele sins, and other shenanigans.  
> http://thebananafrappe.tumblr.com/

* * *

Anonymous asked: What if UF!Sans was too rough with Frisk? So rough, in fact, that he tore her uterus, causing her to bleed to death in the night? Not knowing what he did, and wanting her to learn her lesson after a failed runaway attempt, he stupidly puts off giving her healing magic. But the next day, instead of the compliant begging he was hoping for, she doesn't move. The cell is colder than it's ever been. And as he lifts her blanket, he realizes that he has become his father. I'd love to read his reaction.

* * *

Frisk’s cold, dead eyes stare back into Sans’ empty sockets, glazed and expressionless but for the pain of loneliness and death. The blood that has soaked into the blankets, stained the floorboards, and stuck to her skin reeks, even in the cold of the shack. It covers his hands, dripping from his clawed fingers, even though he hasn’t touched her.

He drops the blanket, and it covers her motionless form, but the sight will not leave his gaze; he drops to his knees, claws digging into his skull, pulling at his sockets, scraping across bone and spreading cracks across his face, but nothing can remove the vision of her corpse from his sockets.

He screams, hoarse and ragged and filled with agony, but there is no pity to be offered to the miserable monster, and he cries out his suffering into the night for hours, until his voice, broken and hollow, can be heard no more.

He never speaks again.

He doesn’t leave the shed, after he has shattered his voice, sitting on the floor feet from the body of the human meant to be his and rocking in place, waiting, waiting, waiting for the world to turn, for her promise of those inevitable resets to come, but he waits in vain.

Over the hours, the passing haze of time, he drags himself closer to her body, eventually taking her stiff, cold hand into his and squeezing his phalanges between hers, a horrid facsimile of a warm embrace; he feels the burn of tears on his cheekbones, but does not acknowledge them, lost in What Could Have Been.

He begins to imagine that she speaks to him, softer than she ever was to him in life; she whispers platitudes, forgiveness and patience and kindness, and promises her life to him, to love him and be with him forever.

The next moment, though, she is cold and empty and cruel, stealing away everything he had ever dared to hope for; she sneers and denies and scoffs, withholding what she rightfully owes him and speaking of another monster, a him he could never be.

He ignores the shimmer of her soul hovering over her corpse, vacillating between pleasure and pain, his strength sapping from him as steadily as his sanity; when he finally lifts his sockets from the dead gaze of his lost future, his face is stained with grooves of frostbitten, permanent magic, black lines dug into his bone in the depth of his corruption and insanity.

It has been three days, three days of embracing and softly stroking and silently arguing with a dead body, and when he rises from the floor, her stiff arm thumping to the floorboards in his stoic dismissal, he takes her soul without question, his prize, his future, his _everything_ , and absorbs it into himself.

He becomes the monster he had always been inside, sharp and hard and merciless, and begins his rampage.

He kills his brother first, rips his head from his body with his bare hands, and stomps the body into dust.

The voice in his head, her timbre familiar and loving and everything he had wanted, both praises and mocks him, telling him how weak he is and how much she loves him even in his conscienceless cruelty.

Destroy them all, she croons.

Show them mercy, she begs.

Fire.

Life.

Free them.

Dust them.

_End it._

And so he does.

Snowdin burns, once he is done with the monsters there, the trees no longer the victim of his vengeance; he watches the home he spent a century living in turn to ash, dust and blood staining the snow and decorating the wind, with empty pleasure.

The voice urges him on, muttering that there is more mercy, more destruction, to deal in the Ruins; the old lady is there, with her jokes and the kindness she once had shown his love.

He takes his time killing her, her horror and pleading almost making him smile. Almost.

He is crueler to the females, in his hollow massacre… he makes them suffer, makes them cry and beg and _bleed_ , bleed like she did in the end, before he gives them their mercy and crushes their bodies to dust.

Undyne is no match for his power, when she steps into his path, not even her determination enough to save her; he spits her on her own spears, rips her innards from her, and hangs her with them from the sentry post he had taken so much abuse from her at, walking away as her body drips and melts to the ground.

He ignores the cave where he knows his father waits for him.

The old man’s time will come; there were more monsters to be dealt with. There was more mercy to be delivered, in the name of his love.

The rivers and pools of Waterfall run grey with the dust of his destruction, empty and echoing with the swan song of rain on bloody stones.

Hotland, the Core, and Mettaton’s swinish shrine meet much the same fate.

He throws Alphys, the mad scientist, into a lava pool, and listens to her scream long after she has melted into slag.

His dismembers Mettaton in front of his crowd, cold and calculating; he wipes the oil left on his hands on the stage curtains as he moves on.

 _More, darling… give them my mercy_ , the voice whispers, and he weeps more silent tears of bleak emptiness.

 _They are almost done, fool… finish the work_ , it demands, and he can only obey.

New Home is easy prey, the citizens gathered in the square for some sort of celebration; their screams are cathartic, echoing in the empty streets and narrow alleys for years after their slaughter.

The King, once so powerful and feared, cowers in his last moments, begs to share his power; his crown, split in half as cleanly as his head, clatters to lie in pieces in the blood soaked yellow flowers.

The Underground empty, the whole of the world awaiting his vengeance, Sans breaks the barrier with the overwhelming power of the other souls, staring out into the sunlight… then turns his back, slogging through the dust and waste and mercy he has delivered, back to the Core.

The voice demands the end of it all.

He can only obey.

When he throws himself into the Core, the irony of his end not escaping him (he truly had become his father), the power he takes with him cannot be contained by the already overheated machine, exploding the entirety of the Underground and half of Mount Ebott with it.

The humans called it a volcanic eruption, though their scientists are baffled as to why a long dormant volcano would suddenly explode into life after thousands of years; millions died in the aftermath, their skies choked with ash and their lands washed with molten rock.

Their country would recover, years passing and restoring order, but with that time came a new nightmare.

The Core cannot destroy life, after all… and the Void gives as surely as it taketh away.

The human news clamored over the appearance of a monster in the depths of night, murdering young women in their beds; those that happened to glimpse this apparition and live to tell the tale described it as a large skeleton with pointed, bloodstained fangs, claws so sharp they sliced though space itself, and empty sockets that dripped tears of tar down its cheekbones.

It struck in the dark, in the night that belonged to it and its deceased lover, stalking the women for months at a time; it haunted their dreams, appearing in the corners of their eyes and hovering over their beds while they slept, hunting them until they could run no further.

It had no voice, but was surrounded by whispers, soft assurances and hard demands echoing in a woman’s voice in the nightmare visions of the creature.

It killed in the same way, every time: the women’s bodies would be found defiled, bled out from punctured uteruses, and carved, across their torn stomachs, with the words “why did you leave me alone”, grotesquely written in comic sans.

Cults were formed around the beast, offerings of young women proffered to soothe its ceaseless, hollow fury, but they could not know that it searched for only one woman, one soul, and swept its _mercy_ across the world, reigning in mythical, terrible fear.

Until one day, almost a hundred years later, there was a child born with a soul of Determination, with the Potential, with the other half of its grieving, blackened soul.

The creature, a husk of its former self, watched over the child as it grew, an imaginary friend that guarded her from all harm and unhappiness.

When her mother abandoned her, cruel words on her tongue, the beast tore her heart from her body and left her to rot in an alley.

When her father dared to lay a hand on her, drunk on power and booze, the monster came to him in his nightmares and drove him into insanity and suicide.

Though parentless, the girl grew happily, never knowing what the silent, stoic skeleton that came to her in the night was; it brought her gifts, yellow flowers and books and, once, a beautiful, gold heart locket (it grew upset if she took it off, so she never did).

As happy as she was, as she grew and discovered herself and found what she wanted to be (she was an artist, and took up the habit of drawing the beast, captivated by it and its rough, taciturn beauty; it took the pictures with it when it left at night, trying to hide the new tears on its cheekbones), she was lonely, an oddity about her that no one liked to be around.

The monster never left her, though, even when the boy she liked denied her (he passed away horrifically a few days after that, hung in his closet), even when she found herself friendless, even as she grew more secluded and, sometimes, despairing.

It always came to her, let her hug it, gave her comfort even in its silence.

It looked at her like she was precious, drove away her nightmares, never harmed her even though it would have been easy, with its sharp claws and its strength; she never feared it, through the man in the psychiatric office said that she should.

One night, when the creature made to leave her, she asked it to take her with it.

It did not hesitate.

It pulled her into the Void, and knew the world no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you T-T I'm so sorry.
> 
> Leave your suggestions here, or on Tumblr.


	4. Another Round

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frisk has a night out, and Sans fucks up in more than one way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh finally XD It's been too long, guys, I'm so sorry. But here it is, the next drabble, to hopefully hold you over until the next Dalliance chapter!
> 
> Warnings for this one are underage drinking (Frisk is 19), some sexual intent, cursing, and some grossness. No one under 18 please.
> 
> My Tumblr, for sneak peeks, skele sins, extra content, and other shenanigans.  
> http://thebananafrappe.tumblr.com/
> 
> Also, my blog page for the fantastic fan art sent to me!  
> http://fanartcenteral.tumblr.com/

* * *

Anonymous asked: We've seen drunk Fell, but what about drunk Frisk? What would our favourite skeleton do in a situation like that? Would he take advantage of her or not? Also, your fic is AWESOME <3

* * *

They all knew there was going to be trouble the moment that the front door of Grillby’s slammed open, the seething, dark silhouette of the elder skeleton brother obscuring the storm outside.

The Dog Guard shrank away from the swirling gale that the wrenched door admitted, lowering their muzzles to their drinks and averting their eyes (except for Doggo, who couldn’t see well enough to completely understand the situation).

A pair of rabbit monsters in the booth beside the door sunk in their seats, only the tips of their shuddering, fuzzy ears visible, hoping to avoid Sans’s baleful gaze.

Grillby glowered at the intimidating monster, looking unhappily at the slush of muddy snow he dragged over the doorstep when he finally stomped inside and shoved the door shut behind himself (a picture fell from the wall, making everyone in the bar flinch), but said nothing, running a rag over the surface of the counter he stood in front of staidly.  
  
Even Jerry, who never knew when to shut up, turned around on his barstool and closed his gaping mouth, picking at his bowl of cheese puffs in pouty silence.  
  
The only person that didn’t seem to care about the menacing appearance of the glowering skeleton was the human girl propping herself up on the bar beside the jukebox, a silly smile on her lips and a gleam in her eye.  
  
“Oooohh... look who’s decided to join us! Mr. Grumpy himself,” she slurred, elbowing the horse monster seated beside her (he quickly scuttled away, breathing heavily and squeaking an apology to the fuming monster storming down the aisle towards the bar) and tipping the amber liquid in the bottom of the glass she clutched in one hand towards her mouth.  
  
She let out a startled gasp when Sans stopped beside her, looming darkly, and snatched the tumbler from her fist, glaring petulantly up at him.  
  
“Hey! I wasn’t finished with that, asshat,” she protested, reaching for her absconded drink (extremely unsuccessfully, as he stood several feet over her seated form), then gaped accusingly when he downed the alcohol himself, slamming the glass back on the counter in front of Grillby.  
  
“actually, ya were. you were supposed to be done with it two fuckin’ minutes ago, in fact. that was the _deal_ ; home by ten, _no exceptions_ ,” he snarled bitingly, leaning an arm on the counter and casting a dark shadow over the reclining girl.  
  
Frisk rolled her eyes, though, unaffected by his menace and glancing passingly at the clock on the wall before scoffing.  
  
“You really came stomping in here over me being two minutes late? Damn, Sans, maybe you needed that drink more than I did,” she snarked, leaning around his bulky, furred shoulder to gesture at the flaming bartender for another drink.  
  
Sans turned on his heel and glared at Grillby discouragingly, though, when the purple fire elemental started to reach for the empty tumbler in front of him, digging into his front pants pocket and slapping a handful of gold onto the counter.  
  
“you’re _done_ , frisk. we’re goin’ home,” he growled, his claws scraping over the top of the counter and leaving deep, off-color scratches in its polished surface (Grillby crackled in dismay, scowling fiercely at the top of his counter but not daring to approach the squabbling pair), but Frisk, letting out a huff of agitation, leaned towards him, pointing a shaky finger up at his glowering face.

“I don’t think I am… _Sans_. I think I want another drink,” she snapped, slapping an open hand on the bar and swaying on her stool, far braver than advisable in her drunkenness, and Sans, sockets narrowing as his temper and magic flared, grabbed her extended arm by the wrist, pulling her towards him until their faces were inches apart.

His much larger hand encompassed her entire wrist, an enveloping shackle, his claws overlapping and digging into her skin in his irritation.

“you’re not gonna get one. you ain’t gonna like what you _are_ gonna get if you don’t fuckin’ obey. _now_ ,” he demanded in a deadly whisper, sparks of portentous red energy flickering in the darkness of his gaze, and Frisk, swallowing heavily and licking her suddenly very dry lips, flushed a deep red, maintaining eye contact for only a second longer before dropping her gaze to the counter in front of her, confused and trembling.

She didn’t know what was wrong with her. Normally, she would have argued back at him. She’d have told him exactly where to shove his commands. She’d have had her damn drink, thank you very much, and _then_ she’d have let him chase her home, yelling his head off all he wanted.

It was pushing his boundaries, as he was far more prone to showing her the back of his hand when in a temper (despite him seeming to be trying to keep from hurting her, these days), but she usually had no patience or sympathy for Sans’ ridiculous demands, and was willing to take the bloody lip if it meant that small victory.

She had to keep the faith, had to stay true to herself.

And yet, with him leaning over her tonight, snarling and intimidating and taking control, she was quailing, her breath short and the alcohol she had drunk rushing in her veins, warming her body and fuzzing her mind into perplexity and pushing tightness into her abdomen.

She didn’t understand why she had backed down, her heart beating in her throat and her cheeks flushing in… what? Fear? Embarrassment? It didn’t feel like either.

She knew her deepest secret, her hidden and guilt ridden affinity for his gruffness and dominance (she hated it, hated the tiniest part of her that surged in desire when he growled at her, when he bared his fangs and ordered her around, and ignored that part as best she could, as often as she could), but she had never succumbed to it before, had never had that inkling rule her so much as to abandon her usual temperament.

Was it the alcohol? Gods, she must have had way more than she had thought she did… but surely not enough to have driven her to the depths of such madness as _liking_ the way she was being treated.

He was a beast… a brute with a terrible temper, appalling habits, and even worse appetites.

She couldn’t afford to forget that, in addition to all of the things he had done to her, kidnapping her and beating her and forcing himself on her, making unwanted advances and keeping her prisoner in his home.

It was better than the shed, sure, but it didn’t make up for the state of his bedroom floor, nor the way his gaze lingered on her every time she walked into the same room he was in (which was seemingly unavoidable).

Nevertheless, despite her confused dissonance, there she sat with her gaze on her lap, one hand stiff and unmoving at her side and the other captured in the large, hard grasp of her “guardian”; she had already given up the fight, fallen to his dictating whim, so she could hardly protest now…

And honestly had no desire to, even given her inner objections.

As such, Frisk swallowed against the lump of awkward tightness in her throat, wrestling down the heat that swirled tantalizingly through her mind, and nodded her head rigidly, breathing in heavily through her nose to steady herself.

It didn’t help… she could smell him, with him standing so close to her, cigarette smoke and well-worn fabric permeated by the scent of winter (wood fires and sharp, fresh snow and crushed pine needles), along with the scent she had come to identify as distinctly, only _him_ , heady with magic and the musk of his bones and the abdomen tightening perfume of pure, unadultered sex.

She shuddered, a tingle running down her spine to spark the heat in her stomach higher.

Gods, what was wrong with her tonight?

“…y-yeah, alright. I’m coming,” she murmured, fidgeting on her stool and biting her lower lip; Sans furrowed his brows, tilting his head at her behavior, but seemed to dismiss his curiosity and took a step back, pulling on her captured wrist imperiously.

“hurry it up, then. i’m losin’ my fuckin’ patience with ya,” he ordered bitingly, clearly at the end of his tolerance, judging from the rage filling his tone and the dark aura of murder exuding from him (Frisk sucked in a sharp breath, cheeks darkening further; his rough voice sent a chill through her, barely holding back a excited gasp (Frisk, for the love of the stars, cut it out!), and Frisk, trying her damnedest to ignore the warmth surging in her veins, lowered her eyes further, leaning down to grab her bag before struggling to her feet, off balance from the drink and Sans’s tight hold on her arm.

“Alright, alright, just hold on a sec. Geez, the touchiness on this one, am I right?” she groused in an attempt to hold on to her attitude, righting herself and directing her comment at the rest of the bar, filled with similarly intoxicated monsters watching their interactions (the collective breath the rest of the room had been holding, used to the explosive fights the pair could get into, had been released with Frisk’s acquiescence, the mood in the grill settling), and halfway down the bar, a tipsy, bulbous monster with a large jaw and not enough sense to fill a spoon made the mistake of laughing.

The silence that fell after the ill-timed chortle was so dense, thick, and fraught it could have been cut with a knife.

Sans, never one to abide insult, turned on the drunk patron in an instant, stalking over to him to stand over his seated position threateningly, one hand digging into the collar of his shirt and the other still clamped around Frisk’s wrist, dragging her along in his stilted wake (her head was swimming from the speed and roughness of his movement, needing to lean against the bar to settle herself again).

“you see somethin’ funny? think i’m a fuckin’ joke?!” he snarled at the now quailing beast, his face paling of all color and leaving him a sickly shade of greenish blue; the monster, recognizing his precarious position and proximity to death, shook his head rapidly side to side, leaning away from Sans’s grasping, pointed claws, far too close to his throat.

“N-no, Sans… nothing… just had a cough…” he whimpered, his voice quavering in his blatant fear, and Sans, baring his teeth in a menacing sneer, barked out a harsh, demeaning laugh, devoid of humor, before slamming the monster backwards into the bar, shaking his hand free of his shirt and wiping his fingers on his pants.

“that’s what i fuckin’ thought. eyes down, douchebag,” he snapped, making a violent, provoking motion towards the cowering monster to make him flinch again, then turned back to Frisk, practically seething in ire and displeasure; his magic danced in his narrowed sockets, both fear and that goddamned heat rushing through her body.

Crap… he was probably going to have more than just words for her when they got back to his house. If she was lucky, he’d take even the smallest bit of mercy on her drunken state and not beat her too badly.

“you. let’s _go_ ,” he growled, pulling on her arm and dragging her behind him, back towards the door that led outside and uncaring of her stumbling; Frisk nearly lost her balance and tripped over a chair, having to grab on to the back of it to steady herself before being jerked forward again, stumbling in the wake of the furious skeleton.

Her temper flared at his treatment of her, at the same moment as she flushed at his heavy handedness… and though she knew it was unwise to push him further, even though she _knew_ she was already in enough trouble, she still turned her torso, slipped her bag over her shoulder, and waved a jovial hand at the patrons of the bar.

“Night, ladies and gentlemen! Stay hot, Grillz!” she called out, shooting a finger gun at the purple fire elemental watching the pair of them draw further away, and, around her wrist, Sans’s grip tightened, claws scraping along her skin through her sweater, before dropping away entirely.

Frisk was surprised for a moment, supposing, impossibly, that he had calmed down and was going to let her go (could it really be?), before his missing hand rose to fist in her hair instead, gripping close to her skull and wrapping the length around his skeletal fingers.

She let out a humiliated, protesting yelp, clenching her eyes in pain and ducking her head to lighten the pressure on her scalp, but he made no comment beyond glancing at her from the corner of his sockets, gaze a bright, livid red and mouth flat in a hard, cruel grimace, and proceeded to yank the door of the bar open with his spare hand, pulling her out after him into the storm.

Night had long fallen on the Underground, the mosses that lit the caverns gathering their luminescence for the next day cycle, but the straight, simple path through town was lit by lights coming from the windows of the houses lining the thoroughfare and the occasional, flickering light post, most of the shadows of the gathered dark clinging to the edges of the towering forest surrounding the village of Snowdin.

The light was of some comfort to Frisk as she staggered in the wake of her tormenter, clutching at his wrist to try to ease his grip (at least she wouldn’t trip over anything in the dark… that would only make him angrier), but Sans cared little for light or dark, capable of seeing perfectly in both, and had no concern for the storm either, striding through the building drifts of snow with long, heated steps.

Frisk could barely keep up, tears falling down her cheeks at the pain he was inflicting on her and from the fear of what was to come (he was so mad… would he put her back out in the shed again? He hadn’t done that since the day she escaped, but she feared that, feared the reminder of what she had suffered out in the shack); she tried to lock her legs, to slow him in his rampage, but he was far stronger than she was, and only got a jerk of his arm and an annoyed growl for her trouble.

By the time they were passing in front of the library (they still hadn’t fixed that sign…), she couldn’t take it anymore, her vision filmed with tears and her legs weak from trying to keep up with him; she could feel her hair tearing, under his tight grip.

She had to say something, much as she feared opening her mouth again.

“Sans, slow down! Please, you’re pulling my hair out!” she cried out waveringly over the storm, tugging at his hand weakly, and much to her surprise, he actually reacted, having suspected that he would simply ignore her or, in his occasional magnanimity, would loosen his hold on her hair.

Instead, though, he turned off the path, near the edge of the library building, and ducked into the shadows before swinging her around by the fistful of hair he held, slamming her back against the side of the building, and smashing his free hand, fisted and tight, next to her head, standing over her with wrathful fire burning in his left socket.

He bent further down, bringing their faces within inches of each other, and snarled in her face, his hot, nicotine saturated breath washing over her and stinging her eyes (he must have really been pissed, to have been chain smoking…).

“you’re fuckin’ lucky that’s all i’m doin’ to you, skank; i shoulda smacked the backtalk outta you in front of all of them. what did i say about pullin’ attitude with me? huh? what did i say about pushin’ me too far? you’re really fuckin’ askin’ for it tonight,” he spat gruffly, pulling at her hair to rip a cry of pain from her, and Frisk, looking up at him with her knees knocking together, whimpered, licking at her dry lips and trying to decide if he wanted an answer or not.

Probably not, given his current temperament.

She also didn’t trust herself to speak, considering the way that the storm suddenly wasn’t so cold anymore as it blew against her skin… she was acutely aware of where his jacket was brushing against her body, how close he was to her and how… how much she liked the tingle of intimidation that ran down her spine when she met his flaring gaze.

Her head felt even fuzzier than it had only minutes before, her sight swimming and a fog building over her better instincts; he was hurting her, she knew that, knew that she should be outraged that he had been dragging her around by the hair, but she couldn’t seem to remember why.

All she could think of was the glimpse of collarbone she could see above the parted zipper on his coat… all she could consider was how dangerous he looked, and how much that edge of endangerment, that feeling of peril… turned her on.

He could so easily control her, so easily pick her up, slam her against the wall behind her, and have his way with her… did she want that?

She had a sneaking suspicion that she did…

Something in her protested this line of thought, tried to remind her that this monster, this Sans, was a fiend and a pretender, not even close to the Sans she longed for, but the call of heat and spirits and momentary lust was louder.

Outside of Frisk’s drunken reverie, his sockets lidded in fury and punishing indignation, Sans was still snarling under his breath, his fangs glinting in the light of the nearest light post.

“you’re bein’ a real bitch tonight, ya know that? gettin’ mouthy… breakin’ our deal… well the deal’s _off_ now. what ya think of that, smart ass? and you don’t get another fuckin’ chance at it either, not ‘til ya learn some respect. freedom is for humans that _know their place_ ,” he condescended, aiming to hurt and castigate, but didn’t get the reaction he was clearly hoping for, Frisk’s cloudy, wandering vision rising to his face slowly.

She considered him in silence for a moment, swallowing heavily and licking her lips again (she didn’t miss how his gaze darted down to the appearance of her tongue), before, with a rosy blush and her teeth worrying her lower lip, she spoke, reaching out to finger the fur lining of his coat’s hood.

“…And… and what is my place?” she breathed, barely audible above the howling of the wind; Sans himself looked like he hadn’t heard her correctly, his brow furrowing and his spine bending to bring their faces closer.

Or _had_ he heard her? His fist was unclenching in her hair, his gaze no longer as heavy or violent; he looked tense, his movements stiff and his breaths short, rushing from between his teeth in mists of frozen fog that whipped away from his face on the brisk wind.

“…what?” he asked quietly, the anger in his tone softened into edgy curiosity and rabid interest, and Frisk, letting out a quiet gasp at the sound of his voice, lurched forward, pressing herself to the front of his jacket in a moment of both lowered inhibition and off kilter coordination.

His free hand leapt to her lower back, steadying her and holding her up; her blood rushed through her at its contact, her alcohol hazed mind putting more meaning and tenderness into the motion than there perhaps really was.

She clutched at the lapels of his coat, woozily arching up against him and looking up at him from beneath her thick lashes in an attempt at inebriated seduction.

“T-tell… tell me my place… Sans…” she slurred, standing on her toes to press her fluttering, parted lips to his jaw, the scrape of bone against her skin both familiar and foreign, and under her hands, Sans stiffened further, his fingers in her hair and on her lower back tightening.

He looked down at her with growing heat in his gaze, a haughty smirk pulling at his mouth; his hand tangled in her hair shifted downwards, cupping the back of her skull to keep her in place, a growl of not anger, but possession and avidity, building in his chest.

He leaned further towards her, sockets dropping to gaze fervidly at her parted, glistening lips… but then was hit with a face full of her breath, the alcohol she had been drinking that night clear and strong.

His expression dropped from hope and victory to exasperation and disappointment immediately, grunting out a sigh and standing back up to his full height; he pulled his hand from her hair to cover his face, scrubbing at his clenched eye sockets and groaning beneath his breath.

Frisk didn’t immediately realize why he had pulled back, wobbling in place against him and pulling at his coat to get his attention; he peeked at her through his fingers, rolling his flaming gaze in his sockets at her fogged, hazy expression.

“stars… you’re drunk as a damn skunk, ya idiot. no wonder ya lost track of time and were actin’ the fool…” he grumbled, his temper flagging and deflating as quickly as his momentary interest; he pulled her away from his body insistently, but then thought better of trying to make her walk again, in her state (she nearly tipped over at the sudden, if small, motion of him stepping away from her), and stooped to pick her up instead, arms curling under her knees and around her back.

She was more than happy with the arrangement, giggling and snuggling against and burrowing into the warm, soft fur of his jacket as he walked her towards the glowing windows of their shared home; she turned her face into his neck, the smell of soap and bone triggering her drunken memory, warping the situation in her drunken sight beyond reparation.

Sans…

She clung to him as he shouldered his way into the living room of the large, warm house, the weapons decorating the walls glinting in the light of the single lit lamp in the corner. She attempted to lick his vertebrae, too, clutching at his broad shoulders and wriggling against him to try to reach, but he held her in place firmly, growling in annoyance at her shenanigans.

Frisk was extremely surprised when he dropped her onto the couch, separating her fingers from his coat insistently; she teared up a little, gazing up at his towering, frustrated looking form with a wobbling lower lip.

“Sans, no… come back, _please_ …” she begged, reaching for him as he backed away, his hands digging into his pockets purposefully, and the skeleton monster, face twitching between aggravation and yearning, turned away, scoffing.

“i _am_ comin’ back, ya sloshed dunce. just goin’ to get ya some sea tea before you go to bed,” he explained as he stalked from the room, shoulders hunched and voice strained, and Frisk, blinking, leaned back against the backrest of the sofa, looking up at the ceiling and marveling at how it moved, in waves and fits and starts.

Huh… had it always done that?

She jumped when Sans returned and pressed a cool, perspiring mug into her hands, having been distracted by the motions of the ceiling fan, and sipped at the cup quietly as Sans, rubbing the heels of his palms into his sockets, sat on the edge of the couch at her side, waiting for her to finish.

She looked at him over the rim of her cup, vision swimming and head swaying; he looked tired, but was still trying to take care of her. Blue and red blurred in her memory, affection warring with reluctance… and left her with nothing but the knowledge that, though he was mean and loud and had hurt her, on purpose, he was trying.

Her intoxication marred her reason, insisting that this fact redeemed him, that he was deserving of more than her constant rejections, and, almost in a trance, she watched her hand reach out and deposit her half full cup on the coffee table in front of the sofa, her body scooting haphazardly across the cushion at her side to press herself to the grumbling monster’s side.

Her hands rose to touch him, draping across his shoulders and tracing down his femur; she snickered to herself when he jumped at her contact, head snapping up and gaze, fuzzy from shock, rotating to focus on the girl at his side. He froze up, tensing and leaning away from her instinctively, though his cheekbones, betraying his interest, flushed red hotly.

“what the fuck? frisk, the hell are you…” he began, tone tight and admonishing in his confusion and surging interest, then fell quiet as her hand on his leg trailed further down, fingertips brushing bone when they extended past his bunched shorts. “frisk. stop.”

His voice was quiet but intense, his warning missing the heat that his anger always carried; despite telling her to stop, he didn’t move further away, gaze only flicking between her adventuring hand and her drunkenly flushed face. He was clearly restraining himself, his hands balled at his sides and his chest rising and falling quickly.

She should have stopped there. She should have listened, should have sat back, picked her drink back up, went back to her corner of the couch.

She didn’t. Instead, she scooted further into him, swaying slightly, and slowly edged one of her legs over his until she had straddled him fully, hands shifting to clench on his shoulders, for support and tactility both.

She watched his expression the whole time she was rearranging her position (as well as a completely inebriated person could, anyway), trying to judge if she was making things better or worse, but from the way he swallowed, the way his hands rose to hold her waist to steady her… the way his gaze sharpened and flared… she had to assume this was going rather well.

She had a feeling it shouldn’t be, that she should be focusing on bed and washing the alcohol from her system… but ignored that whisper of reason, the strange, analogous parallel between this monster and her beloved overcoming all sense.

Oh, Sans…

“I don’t wanna… I like this…” she whispered to him in answer, giggling at the sound of her own voice and falling forwards, against his bony chest; Sans, gulping heavily, turned his face away from nearly being pressed between her breasts reluctantly, his hands on her waist shaking in his forced control.

“you’re pissed as all hell, frisk. you have no fuckin’ clue what ya like,” he muttered, gripping at her waist to keep her from moving against him too much but, contrary to his denials, not attempting to move away from her, not trying to pull her away or reject her outright, and Frisk, encouraged by this, bent to finally run her tongue, unimpeded up the length of his cervical vertebrae, tracing the bumps and holes and cracks with the tip.

He tasted clean, like the unmarked bottle of body wash in the shower and of freshly laundered clothes (he must have already taken his shower before coming to get her); she groaned against him, leaning further against his body and clenching her legs around his.

She was surprised when he let out a quickly stifled groan too, tensing at the feeling of her sinking into him and licking him; his fingers tightened on her hips, claws pricking at the material of her sweater. This only excited her more, daring to suck at one of the protruding ridges on his spine.

“I know I like it when you tell me what to do in that gruff, growly voice… I like it when you get rough with me…” she murmured against him hazily, momentarily forgetting who she was straddling from her position tucked under his chin, and got a rumbling growl in return for her proclamation, vibrating his bones against her lips.

Frisk grinned at that, running wobbly, unsure hands down his front to tick her fingertips along his ribcage, and kissed one vertebra, leaving behind a smear of pale pink lipstick (she had forgotten that she put that on… did he have a mark on his jaw too?).  

“I like it when you… what did you say? Put me in my place?”

His breathing stopped entirely at her words, his body tensing and shuddering beneath her; his hands clutched at her sweater, pulling like he wanted to rip it right off of her. He didn’t though, and immediately lifted her off of his lap, pushing her over onto the couch cushion next to him a little too quickly.

When her vision finally settled after the abrupt motion, she looked over to see Sans with his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving and his jaw gaping, a trail of drool dripping down to his chin. His magic was flaring behind his closed fingers, betraying his state, and his breath was rushing from him quickly, heavy and shuddering.

Tentatively, feelings a little hurt, Frisk reached out a foot to touch his leg, to try to get his attention, and he shot a glare at it from the corner of a socket, shoving it away harshly. His voice, when he spoke, was kinder than his motions, however, layered with frustrated resignation.

“…frisk… fuck, you don’t make this easy. you’re drunk, okay? you ain’t thinkin’ straight. can’t be doin’ this stuff while you’re wasted,” he insisted in a near growl, something pleading in his tone, and Frisk, pouting at his claim, scowled, folding her arms over her chest and staring at his averted profile.

“Maybe… m-maybe not, but when I’m _not_ drunk, I still like that stuff. Gets me hot… makes me think some p-pretty crazy thoughts, about you and me…” she protested, embarrassed and petulant, and Sans, shuddering, sank his face back into his hands, shaking his head and mumbling something, too quiet for her to make out.

He stayed like that for a moment, making odd motions forwards every once in a while, as though meaning to get up, but never did; after a time, during which Frisk got extremely impatient, he finally moved, turning to look at her fully.

He looked dogged, his magic filling his narrowed left eye socket and his mouth tilted downwards in a self-depreciating grimace. He swallowed, looking slowly over her reclining body, then met her gaze staidly.

“…tell me. tell me what ya think about,” he said quickly, as though not giving himself time to change his mind, and Frisk’s heart jumped excitedly in her chest, her arms pushing at the couch cushion under her to try to sit up. She failed magnificently, so remained lying down, looking over at Sans with her best seductive smile.

“I… I like to think about you touching me… taking me to bed… undressing me and… and f-fucking me so hard you break the bedframe…” she whispered shakily, whimpering quietly at her own words and implications (she needed friction, her skin tingling, and rubbed her thighs together languidly), and Sans sucked in a breath, his sockets widening and his whole body jolting towards her.

He held himself back though, not even reaching out to touch her; his expression spoke to his desire to do just the opposite, hunger and longing dripping from his heavy, flaming gaze and clawed hands twitching in his slightly glowing lap, but nevertheless sat stubbornly in place.

“holy shit… sugar, that’s… _that’s_ what you think about when i get mad atcha?” he muttered, his craving for her leaking into his voice, making it nearly vibrate with want, and Frisk let out a small, needy noise at the sound of his taut, intense tone, excitement shooting through her body to pool in her abdomen.

“Mhm… I imagine you punishing me, too… spanking me and making me… making me suck your cock…” she revealed, her cheeks flushing heavily at the admission (did she actually imagine that? It felt familiar…), and Sans let out a long, low moan, one hand rising to clutch at his face.

He was trembling now, movements tight and measured; it looked like he was barely holding back, pushed to the end of his tether.

“gahh… fuckin’ hell, you’re a damn minx… teasin’ me to dust…” he groaned quietly, nearly quiet enough for Frisk to have missed it, but she didn’t, could hear the desperation and lust in his deep, rough voice, and, instead of speaking, reached a hand out to touch the cuff of his coat, pulling at his arm and succeeding in dragging his free hand down to settle on her thigh.

She gasped at the contact, the all too familiar scrape of bone against fabric giving rise to incredible memories of pleasure in her mind (her Sans, pressing her to his couch and kissing her senseless, his hands trailing down her legs to cup behind her knees and spread her thighs for him… would he do it again?), and across from her on the couch, his magic sparking past his clenched fingers, Sans lost his hold on his control.

He was over her, on his hands and knees, in a flash, clawed fingers digging into the cushion under her and face lowering to bring their mouths incredibly close, his breath washing over her parted lips and his gaze, hard and indigent, pinning her more efficiently than even his larger form could.

“seems like ya need some punishment right now, don’t it?” he hissed, tongue flicking past his fangs to catch a trail of drool that was escaping his mouth, and Frisk drew in a shuddering, anticipatory breath, head swimming but knowing, _hoping_ , for what this could bring her.

“Mmm, yes… Sans… I was so bad, disobeying you like that…” she keened, arching up towards him and reaching for his shoulders, to drag him down on her, and he let out a snarling, cruelly amused laugh at that, adjusting his posture so he could capture her wrists in his hands and press them down to the sofa, his message clear and tantalizing.

He was in charge. He was calling the shots, and she’d better obey this time.

“you’re damn right you were. i warned ya about runnin’ your mouth and stayin’ out too late… now you’re gonna regret it. you’ll learn some respect even if i gotta fuck it out of ya,” he growled, bending to press his fanged mouth to her ear, through her hair; he lowered his hips to settle between her spread legs deliberately, his arousal pressing against her core.

Frisk, awash in the mists of her alcoholic imbibing and the heat of his passionate embrace and the furious fluttering of her own heart (this felt both right and wrong at the same time, somehow… she wanted it, and yet…), moaned quietly, plaintively, slipping her legs behind his knees to hold him in place over her.

“O-oh… gods yes… Sans, _please_ …” she entreated against the side of his skull, panting and clenching her legs to pull his pelvis, along with the hot, rigid crotch of his shorts, harder against her, and the lascivious skeleton monster above her on the couch exhaled hotly into her hair, bucking his hips into her desperately.

He pulled his head back to meet her gaze again, encouraged by the cloudy but eager need in her eyes; he dipped his face down to lick at her neck, reveling in the whines and soft cries she let out under his ministrations.

“beggin’ won’t save ya now… gotta make sure you’ve learned your lesson. you thought i was rough with ya earlier... you got off easy. i’m gonna fuck you so damn hard you won’t be able to get outta bed tomorrow… maybe i’ll fuck you twice, just to make sure you remember,” he promised darkly against her throat, fingers clenching around her wrists and his own salacious hope overcoming him; he dug his nasal ridge against the neckline of her sweater, pushing it aside so he could lave his tongue over the puckered bite mark on her shoulder possessively.

Frisk could feel his hunger in his motions, in the intent behind his words and actions, and trembled with both want and expectation, grinding into his erection and jumping at the animalistic growl that answered her teasing movement.

“ _Oh_ … oh, yes… I need it, I need _you_ … I…” she stammered, blind to lust and need and the too familiar scent of magic and bone and smoke… smoke… cigarette smoke.

Suddenly, Frisk’s face turned very green, panic and nausea and realization hitting all at once.

“Oh no.”

Sans, still lost in the feeling of her skin and the sound of her pleasure and the plush softness of her body below his, very reluctantly pulled away from her shoulder to look at her face, curious about her sudden change in tone, just in time to see her gagging.

He pulled back as quickly as he could, scrambling to grasp her shoulders to turn her sideways, but still caught a wave of vomit as Frisk emptied her stomach of the alcohol she had drunk, barely holding back a gag himself at the sound alone. Sighing and cursing at himself, he patted and rubbed her back as she finished, until she lay panting and quaking on her side, lips glistening with acid.

She was clearly incapable of helping herself, so Sans, grumbling and weary, picked her up and carried her upstairs to the bathroom carefully, cleaning her face and hair of vomit before carting her off to bed. He shucked her shoes off, onto the refuse littered floor, before tucking her between the sheets, smoothing his hand over her fevered brow before turning away, to clean the mess in the living room.

Frisk jolted from her near slumber at the tender touch, looking blearily after the retreating shadow of the skeleton.

“Sans? Are you alright?” she murmured, attempting to sit up, but he reached out and pushed her back onto her pillow gruffly, his sigh heavy and annoyed. His voice was quiet and resigned when he spoke.

 “…yeah, ‘m alright. go ta sleep, sweetheart. you’ll be feelin’ it in the mornin’,” he instructed, brushing her cheekbone with his thumb longingly, then left the room swiftly, leaving Frisk in darkness, dubious memory (had she been doing something a minute ago? She couldn’t remember…), and quickly fallen sleep.

* * *

Downstairs, on his hands and knees beside the couch and equipped with gloves, cleaner, sponges, and a disgusted expression, Sans scrubbed at the foul stain on the carpet, glaring at it and the circumstance beyond it.

He should have known better. He should have known she was too drunk… who was he kidding? He had known she was too drunk to be fooling around with him the moment she’d breathed in his face.

But he had ignored his better instincts, had ignored that noble voice that had pressed at him to leave her _the hell alone_ , and had left himself in this state, with a goddamn hard on and incredible lust and so much shame over what he had almost done, _again_ , that he wanted to be sick too.

He’d face the music tomorrow, when she remembered and cussed him out. He’d deserve it, after what he’d done to her.

“this girl is gonna be the fuckin’ death of me,” he muttered beneath his breath, dunking the dirty sponge into the bowl at his side again, and resumed scrubbing at the floor, hoping beyond hope that one day, _somehow_ , he would either gain some sort of control around her or she, by some miracle, finally accepted him.

Ha. Fat fucking chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to comment, and share your ideas for drabbles!


	5. Sans' Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans says goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, what excitement <3
> 
> Also, slight spoilers.

She was gone.

Frisk had escaped him, fled the Underground altogether, and he left him to die in this place without a backwards glance.

For the better, most likely. He would have just hurt her more, if she had stayed. If he had caught up to her.

Sans slumped back against the backrest of the bench he sat on, looking up at the cavern roof far above. It was littered with crystals, glistening in the glow of the echo flower at his side and the luminescent mosses that clung to the wet, dripping walls of the small cave, and though he had no real idea what the true stars looked like, he allowed himself a small, cracked smile, wondering if somewhere, far above his prison, Frisk was looking up at the stars too.

He wondered, in vain hope, if she thought about him as often as he thought of her.

Sans sighed, longing and pain singing in his bones, but that was nothing new. In the month since he had seen her, since she had broken free of the cage he had imprisoned her in, he had felt pangs of agony and desperate desire, for the girl that would never be willing to try to fix them. He had deserved what had happened to him, after all, the rending of his own soul.

Had brought it upon himself.

He knew his time was up, too, just from the way that the pain was seeming to dull. He hadn’t looked at his soul in a week, no longer bothering to fear his coming end… he didn’t have the heart to see the cracks spreading further, unhindered by his best attempts to heal them.

Heh. Didn’t have the heart. He really didn’t, did he?

Sans chuckled to himself, shaking his head, then turned his weary, shuddering gaze to the echo flower whispering the tones of his own laughter back at himself, reaching out a tremulous hand to touch the pale petals.

How had he fallen so far? How had he failed so drastically?

“just wasn’t ready for the… responsibility,” he muttered to himself, to the empty cave and the last of his days, and felt, in his chest, his soul flinch one last time, the crack finally reaching the other side of the center of his being.

It shattered in silence, falling into magic unknown and renewed, and stripped his body of form, the pain and loneliness of his last smile dropping away into dust.

His last thought, as he faded from existence, was of Frisk… and what he could have done differently, had he only had the courage and fortitude to try.

The cave remained unchanged, unaware of the monster that collapsed into nothingness and powder and sifted through the slats of the bench to the stone floor beneath; the river rushed past unheeding, laughing along the riverbed. Even the echo flower, repeating the solemn words of “just wasn’t ready for the responsibility” to itself, paid no mind to the quickly cooling dust.

The shadow at the corner of the cave, however, pulsing and silent, was focused entirely on the deceased monster, seething and bubbling with anger. It shook, as though in mad ire, before slithering across the ground to the shadow of the bench, hiding from the soft light of the cave.

It sat in silence beside the pile of dust for a moment before hissing out a garbled, nonsensical phrase, lost among the shadow’s popping and burbling.

~~"Not yet, boy... your time has not come quite yet."~~

 

~~*reset*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh... can't type in Dings on these sites...
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment or make a drabble suggestion!


	6. Punchtale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans has finally pushed Frisk over the edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another lovely short <3
> 
> My Tumblr, for sneak peeks, skele sins, fantasy talk, and other shenanigans.  
> http://thebananafrappe.tumblr.com/

* * *

He was at it again.

Frisk, leaning against the kitchen counter, plopped the pancake covered mixing spoon she held back into the bowl she had been stirring, glaring at the wall in front of her and trying to ignore the skeletal hands laid on either side of her on the countertop, trying to keep from moving as a sharp nasal ridge dug into her hair, hot, humid breath wafting over her neck.

His chest pressed against her upper back, his bare ribs rising and falling quickly in his impassioned fervor; his hipbones pushed against her ass, his sleeping pants doing nothing to hide his erection.

Sans was making moves again, and she did _not_ appreciate it.

Frisk let out an aggravated sigh when one of the monster’s hands moved from the counter to her hip, digging into her fleshy curves and pulling her harder against him; his jaw parted, his snaking, sinuous tongue lapping at the curve of her neck.

“Cut it out, Sans. I told you, I don’t want you doing this stuff,” she snapped, stirring the bowl in front of her angrily, but Sans was undeterred, chuckling against her skin and sneaking the tips of two claws under the edge of her tank top.

“what stuff, darlin’? just gettin’ a little taste of my woman… how could i resist, when ya come downstairs in those sexy ass little shorts? ya know how much i like ‘em…” he whispered against her neck, his free hand leaving the countertop as well to grasp lewdly at her ass, thrusting his hips against her as he did, and Frisk, annoyance ticking at the corner of her eye, turned her head to glare at the skeleton standing over her.

He always did this. Things would be going so well, they’d be getting along and finding things to like about each other, he’d be proving that he wasn’t an _absolute_ dickweasel… and then he’d back her up against a wall and stick his hands up her shirt, or he’d steal a kiss while she was turning around, or he’d run his hand up the inside of her thigh while sitting next to her on the couch.

It was like he couldn’t help himself, _needed_ to touch her, and she was getting so **sick** of it.

“You know exactly “what stuff”, you jackass,” she snapped, slapping his hand away from her posterior, but instead of backing off like she’d hoped (though that was, honestly, an unrealistic expectation, given his history), Sans merely laughed again and spun her around by the hand he had clutched on her hip, pressing himself to her front instead.

“c’mon, sweetheart… don’t be like that. give it a chance…” he purred, settling his hands on her hips and bending to push his bony lips to hers, as deaf as he always was to her protests (just because she wasn’t trying to run away anymore didn’t mean she wanted to be his personal cock holster; she still didn’t want him), and she just couldn’t take it anymore.

It wasn’t just annoying, having him pushing contact and lust and intimacy on her, it was heartbreaking. He was reminding her more and more of her Sans every day, his little tics and softer ways and the occasional slip of the tongue making her vision go double, and having him so close, so wanting of her, when she sometimes forgot the difference between the two of them…

She had to cry herself to sleep at night, most nights, just to escape the thought that she could possibly ever give in to this Sans. She couldn’t… not even on accident. She’d never forgive herself.

So, with her heart hurting and her anger surging, Frisk drew her fist back, put all of her strength that she could into her wind up, and swung her hand forwards to meet his jaw in a fierce punch.

Sans was so surprised by the blow, as physically weak as it was, that he was thrown off balance, staggering a few steps back from Frisk in shock.

He raised a hand to his face, feeling for damage that wasn’t there, then frowned, a sneer of rejection and anger pulling at his mouth… before realizing that the girl he had been feeling up was bent over in pain, clutching her hand and breathing heavily through her nose in pain.

He looked her over in silence for a moment, rubbing his jawline and watching pained tears gather on Frisk’s eyelashes, before letting out a heavy sigh and propping his hands on his hipbones.

“you had your thumb inside your fist, didn’tcha? ya probably broke it, dumbass. c’mon, we’ll get ya healed,” he grumbled, beckoning to her to follow as he walked out of the kitchen, and, surprised by his candid reply (she had kind of expected him to hit her back, if not just take what he wanted), Frisk hesitantly followed after him, cradling her aching hand and, inwardly, hoping that he would remember this the next time he got it into his thick skull that she might want him.

To her eternal surprise, he did…

Even further to her surprise, the next intimate contact the two of them had was initiated by _her_ , and of her own volition as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave a comment or a drabble suggestion either here or on my Tumblr page!


	7. The Rock and the Hard Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frisk thought she was ready for anything he could throw at her. She was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little drabble I found lost on my blog! Thought you guys would like to see it <3

* * *

Anonymous asked: Random thought while I was lying in bed late at night thinking about random stuff! What would Fell Sans do if he was chasing after Frisk and used a bone wall to stop her from running away too far it caused her to remember the genocide runs when she was a kid and have a complete panic attack? How would he react and what would he do etc?? I'm super curious if you could write a little spiel on that please!! :3

* * *

Frisk clutched at her chest, her eyes wide and her heart beating out of her ribcage and her breath stinging her lungs; the cold was seeping into her bones, freezing her blood and sending shards of ice through her heart, but she wasn’t concerned for her numb fingers, or her reddened cheeks and nose.

What froze her down to her very soul was the skeleton monster chasing after her through the storm, his sockets glowing with his raging, furious magic and his grin glinting with both malice and savage, punitive victory.

It hadn’t taken him long to track her down, as she had run down the path to Waterfall. He had been practically waiting for her at one of the crossroads, snarling at her and immediately snatching for her, and had chased her over half of the way to Waterfall now, throwing bones at her feet to try to trip her up and cursing and shouting about all the things he was going to do with her the second that he caught her.

He was starting to get really annoyed, by the time that the bridge to the next section of the caves came into view through the terrible howling winds of Snowdin, and before Frisk could stumble another step away from him, Sans’ magic flared, his clawed, shaking hand jerked, palm up, towards the far off cavern roof, and in front of Frisk, blocking her path and escape and hope, erupted from the snow covered ground a wall of glowing, cracked bone, feet from her position and so sudden that she nearly crashed into it.

He had expected her to stop, as there was no path forward. He had expected her to turn to him with that glare that he both loved and hated, stand up to him, let him see the fire in her soul. He wanted to hear her defy him again, so brave and determined, before he shoved her to the ground and fucked her right in the middle of the road.

That wasn’t what he got.

What he got instead was a scream of pure, bloodcurdling terror, and her falling into the snow to curl into a ball, her hands over her face and her whole body quaking. Her voice was a sob of both misery and horror as she begged for mercy, as she cried out for understanding for a crime that she didn’t commit as, in her mind’s eye, her body was speared, over and over, by that wall of bone, set aflame by blistering laser blasts.

As her enemy (was he, though? Was he an enemy? He felt like a foe, but he also felt like a friend… a _lover_ …) stared her down from between marble pillars, lit by stained glass windows, accusing her of genocide and selfish cruelty and the destruction of the world. Tears dripped down his skeletal face despite his words, pain resounded in his empty, already dead sockets, but still he raised his hand, still her body broke and burned and fell.

Still, that wall rose, an endless song of murder and agony and shattering souls.

Sans watched her rock and sob and retch in the snow for a too long moment, horrified and distraught (stars… did she remember that? Did she actually remember her version of himself harming her so grievously?), before he walked, with deliberate slowness and a definitively lessened temper, to her side on the ground, kneeling beside her and carefully, so carefully, lifting her into his arms.

She struggled, sobbing wretchedly and pushing weakly at his shoulder, but he held her firmly, shushing her and smoothing a hand over the back of her head and neck and muttering calming platitudes. Blocking her view of the wall of bone he had constructed, sparing her the reminder of her repeated death. Soothing. Sedative.

Lenient.

And, he reassured himself as he stood, turned his back on the already crumbling barrier he had thrown up hastily, and walked back down the road with his treasure in his arms, tucked into his coat and crying herself into a fitful slumber, far more benevolent than the bastard in her memory had been to her.

She would remember this, he thought with a grin. She would remember that he had shown mercy, had cared for her in her low instead of taking advantage. She would think better of him than her little boyfriend, in a regard so large that it sent her into crippling panic attack.

_Finally_. Finally, a point in his favor… and a hefty one at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	8. The Way Things Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans just can't let go.
> 
> One day he'll learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found another one, guys! Hope you like it, even though its short <3

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Anonymous asked: Aftermath of Dalliance: I had this idea of Underfell Frisk not understanding why Red keeps looking in the mirror everyday, sometimes crying in private to just let him through, let him see her. Her confusion gets worse when she finds packets of drawings of someone who looks like an older her in his room.

* * *

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair, that he had to wait so long, after suffering the way he did. He knows it’s his due, that he deserves nothing more than to be made to learn patience and kindness the hard way, but he doesn’t want to, he wants what he had before… he wants the bare taste of forever that he had, with _her_ , the one that his other self had reclaimed.  
  
He loved his Frisk. He did. And one day, when she grew and decided that she wanted to be with him, he would get to have what he had given up for the good of all. But he had never been a patient monster. He had never been good at waiting, and in his low times, in his weakest, most selfish moments, he went to the mirror that hung in his bathroom, and leaned against the sink, and hoped.

He hoped for the memories that had stopped coming to him. He hoped to see something, just a single glimpse of the other world, where he knew, without him, Frisk was happy again. He wished, on every star, that he could see her just one more time, to assuage his selfish need for her.

The visions never came. The mirror was blank, reflecting only his own sadness and frustration back to him. He wept, every time he tried to see her again, clinging to the already fleeting memories of what had slipped through his fingers.

He didn’t know that Frisk saw his plight. He didn’t know that she suffered with him, and wondered why she wasn’t enough. She wondered why he couldn’t look at her some days, and why, on others, he refused to see her. It broke her heart, but she stayed all the same, trying to soothe the angry, lonely monster and repair a rift she couldn’t even remember making.

But time heals all wounds. One day, when he finds himself tired and worn and missing her, he goes to his Frisk instead. She is far better company than the cold emptiness of the mirror that never answers, of his own anguished cries in the otherwise quiet bathroom.

Another year passes, and he stops thinking of her when he looks at the other side of his bed. Instead, there’s a stuffed unicorn that his Frisk made him there, and he laughs every time he sees it.

Another year, and he’s forgotten the smell of her. Instead, his Frisk’s scent fills his head, cotton candy and motor oil and yellow roses.

Another year, and he no longer remembers what she felt like. Her kisses, the feel of her hands, the silk of her flesh. All he knows is his Frisk, her calloused palms and sticky, dirty nose and the sparkle in her mischevious eye.

It doesn’t hurt anymore, to think of what he lost.

He doesn’t really consider it loss anymore.

He has something better, he thinks, as he sits back in his lawn chair and watches the lanky teenager climb a tree and toss apples down to him, the sun high overhead and the summer breeze sweet, sweet as his Frisk. He finally understands why Blue broke time and space and all conceivable laws of nature and science to come for her.

He would too, if his Frisk were taken from him. She was his sunshine, his reason for being better. He had lived without her once… and never wanted to go back to that facsimile of a life.

Five years after she has been gone, and he finally, at last, puts the Frisk that was never his aside, and lets himself open his soul to the one that always was.

It’s the best decision he’s ever made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!


	9. Promises Kept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery is hard. But they can do anything together.
> 
> The journey through Underfell has proven that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another snippet I found <3 something a little different this time.

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Anonymous asked: I wanna see Blue make good on those promises he made to Frisk in Dearly Beloved ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

* * *

The return from Underfell, and the aftermath of the battle, weighs on both of them incredibly hard. It didn’t matter that she doesn’t remember the reset in its entirety… She still has terrible nightmares, of cruel claws and fangs and the horror of her lost control and violated body. Still flinches, on occasion, when Sans reaches for her, instinctual fear wired into her body.

They work through it all. They get through the horror together, the living nightmare that almost ended them both, but it takes years. Years, before he dares even to touch her intimately. Years, before he has the courage to try to rekindle their misplaced future, the bond they were meant to have. The first time, even to simple weight of his hand on her waist frightens her. The rasp of bone against her flesh, as simple a touch as his hand on her arm, makes tears of fear rise to her eyes.

She doesn’t understand. Doesn’t know why she is so afraid of something she had wanted so badly for so long, but again, they work through it. He eases her into it again, at her pace, never his, and though time passes on, though his soul begs him to move more quickly, the night they always dreamed of arrives with her twenty fifth year, the eve of her birth.

He is gentle with her, that first night. He makes love to her, as she deserves, patient and understanding and just happy to be with her, ecstatic to bring her pleasure and watch her come undone beneath his touch and body.

They work slowly into other things, building her trust and curiosity and desire at her whim. The first time she takes the top, nervous and self-conscious, she rides him like he is made of glass, which he would have laughed at if he wasn’t breathless from the look of her arching and moaning on top of him.

The first time he takes her hard, something he’d been dreaming of but figured he would never do, not if it scared her or brought up old memories, it is at her request, and he lasts nowhere as long as he usually did, given the sounds she made and how she clutched at him as he fucked her like the animal he felt like, in that moment.

She loved it, asked for it nearly every time afterwards, and he was more than happy to oblige. A year later, at her twenty-sixth birthday party, he screwed her against her bedroom door, her party dress hanging around her middle and her panties from one ankle. At the Christmas gathering, he has her on the kitchen counter, cookie icing on her hair and his hand over her mouth.

He made her scream for him, the night he finally turned her on her onto her hands and knees and rode her like a madman; he had been terrified of that one, the position she wanted most, given her past with it… But was infinitely pleased with how well she took it, and how much she seemed to enjoy him curling his fingers into her hair to pull her head back. How she moaned when he whispered how sexy she looked bent before him… How she came, over and over, around his cock as he fucked her relatively senseless.

It became a definite favorite for them both, that position, and was how they joined the night they conceived their first child, not long after their formal soul bonding.

 


	10. Dealing with Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The alternate chapter 12, since so many wanted it back.
> 
> Please be warned that this chapter is bad. Really, really bad. Never have I known such evil or violence, and from my own two hands at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last warning: this chapter is the worst, meanest thing I’ve ever written. It contains non-con (straight up rape, kiddos), dub-con, manipulation, abuse, violence, blood, bondage, soul-sex, humiliation, frot, biting, forced bonding, foul language, threats, and, obviously, explicit sexual content. Do not read if you are sensitive to or do not like any of these subjects, or are under the age of 18.

* * *

Frisk knew she was walking a fine line, even as she openly defied the skeleton monster that had menaced her with promises and threats of harm and discipline; she had not stayed at Grillby’s long, knowing just that, getting her burger to go and hightailing it out of there.

She knew that she was tempting the devil to come out to play, the moment that the skeleton brothers’ home came into sight on the road and she made no move to turn off the path she had chosen. That she was stepping onto dangerous, potentially fatal ground as she walked determinately past the shed, never once looking at the small building.

Each step she took weighed on her heart, her very soul, fear of the unknown and of seeing him in the distance, of hearing him coming up behind her in the snow, reigning over her small, shivering form.

She nearly had a heart attack when a shadow appeared before her on the road, through the fog of ice and snow that the wind kicked up, fleeing behind a tree while the monster, a gruesome looking wolf with a jagged, badly healed broken jaw and a mean look in its eye, passed by.

Frisk had worked herself into a tizzy by the time she had reached the bridge, the crossing into the land of Waterfall, her escape more and more promising the closer she drew to its misty, warm caverns, but could take no comfort in its potential relief to her situation.

All she could see was him, around every corner. All she could hear was cruel laughter on the harsh wind, all she could feel was his hard, sharp hands on her body, pulling her against him and raking her skin and taking, taking, endlessly taking.

It was driving her practically insane, her anxiety and paranoia, and her suspicion lessened none as she tapped her way carefully across the slick, misty bridge, the damp green grasses and dripping walls of the waterlogged caverns ahead slowly coming into view as she shuffled along.

She twitched at every echoing footfall she heard as she crossed the bridge, knowing perfectly well that they were her own but imagining the worst (surely that was him behind her, stalking along in her shadow and breathing down her neck and wrapping clawed, terrifying fingers around her throat), but, at long last, shook herself determinately from her melancholic fear when she reached the end of the crossing, the bare stone and puddles of her successful escape stretched ahead into the soft blue glow and crystal studded cave ceilings that preceded her forcing her to realize that she had, indeed, made it.

The cold, her place of torture, and her captor were behind her now. She had only her journey, now, her escape from this terrible place, to look forward to.

She could do it. She really could… and would.

Frisk straightened, from the half crouch of dread and disquiet and misgiving that she had been sunk into for the past few hours, as she stepped from the freezing cold into the warmer, humid air, pulling her scarf from around her mouth and looking, with wonder, at the long, glowing tunnel before her, smiling for the first time in hours, so long her face felt as frozen as the tundra behind her.

She was free. Finally… she was  _ free _ . She’d be back with her beloved in no time… somehow.

She still wasn’t sure how she was going to get back to her world, but she was sure that breaking the barrier and saving the monsters here had something to do with it.

She knew, of course, that there was still danger of this Sans catching up to her, that he was bound to be incredibly angry and fully capable of the menace and violence he had threatened her with (“i’ll break your damn legs, and fuck you so hard and for so long you’ll wish you’d never been born. you won’t be runnin’  _ anywhere _ after that.”), but she couldn’t dwell on that and still be able to navigate the maze of tunnels, rivers, traps, and swamps that lay ahead of her, saying nothing of the monsters that could potentially want to do her harm.

She had to stay determined, or risk giving up entirely out of pure, paralyzing fear.

So Frisk pressed on, pulling her parka off halfway down the long, dripping cave and tying it around her waist; she watched the shadows, but also the scenery, looking on the waving fronds of the slime covered mushrooms, the mossy rocks, the leaping, murmuring stream with bright, curious eyes.

She hadn’t been in Waterfall in years, not since the monsters had left the caverns of their prison far, far behind, but had always loved the place, more than any other of the locales. Sans came back to the caves occasionally to maintain the Core with Alphys, but he hated doing so, and never went as far into the cave system as the swamplands.

She felt too guilty to ever ask him to take her with him, or to take her to their old home in the tunnels. He had no fond memories of the Underground like she did, only recalling misery and loneliness and fear.

She couldn’t make him relive that, not for her or her reminiscence. Not for  _ anything _ . She loved him too much.

That didn’t stop her from recalling, with a small smile, her first time walking these halls, riding the river with the Riverperson, doing puzzles, finding items in the grass. Lying on her back on the ground, making patterns with the crystals… being tricked by Sans into looking into a sabotaged telescope.

She still laughed when she thought of the moment that she had seen her reflection in the water of the echoflower swamp, and heard his resounding laughter from across the mire.

Frisk’s heart fluttered fondly, at the memory, her feet carrying her into the next cave, the one that held Sans’ second sentry station, instinctually; gods, she missed him so much. She missed his laugh, his happy smiles, his silly jokes and pranks.

How he used to hold her, pushed her hair behind her ear before kissing her, brushed her nose with his nasal ridge… how his bones felt beneath her hands, the tiny hearts that formed in his sockets when she told him she loved him.

“wrong choice, sweetheart.”

His deep, sonorous voice, that rumbled through his whole body and sent shivers down her… down her…

Spine…

She froze in place, the moment that she registered what she had just heard through the haze of her memory, and started to tremble in earnest; before her, in the middle of the cave, was her enemy, the monster that she was supposed to be fleeing, leaning casually against the front of his sentry station and looking, with both amusement and complete, utter satisfaction, on his prey.

He had one ankle crossed over the other comfortably and his broad arms crossed over his barrel-like chest, lending him an air of ease and affluence, and was exhaling smoke from a mostly burned down cigarette, the ashen vapor twisting languidly upward, through his nasal cavity and one eye socket, towards the glowing cavern roof.

Frisk clutched her hands to her chest, her peace and hope draining from her and leaving her empty and cold; she wanted to scream, to run and never look back… maybe even plead with him, in the vain hope that he might have even the smallest shred of mercy in him.

This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair, she hadn’t even had a  _ chance _ to escape… he was too powerful, with his damned “shortcuts”…

They both stood there for a long moment, staring each other down with the sound of rushing water and bobbing ice blocks and the drip of condensation down the already sodden walls in the background… before Frisk took a cautious, haltering, shuffling step to the side, trying to edge around the relaxing monster.

He had made no move towards her yet, only watching her in contemplative, daring silence… maybe she could still run further. She wasn’t sure why he wasn’t immediately pouncing on her, like she had imagined he would… was he counting on her fear to send her groveling to his feet?

She was close to that point, honestly, sure that, if she crawled to him and begged for forgiveness, his promised punishment would be lessened, but her soul was pushing her onwards, even though he was now within feet of her, so close she could smell the smoke on his breath, could  _ feel _ the menace exuding from him, despite his leisure and his broad grin.

She could still run. She could hide, and duck and dodge, use the nooks and crannies and escapes that she had learned so well on her travels through this place as a child. He may be able to teleport, but he’d have to find her to catch her.

He couldn’t know everything about this place.

So, she edged by him, at the lip of a chasm that dripped with mosses and slime and old, mineral thick water, eyes on him and his languid smirk and the trail of smoke that wound around his bones and the humid air; he did much the same, watching her shuffle by him almost apathetically, one bony brow slightly raised and, at his side, the glinting length of chain he had once had around her throat swinging in the bare, wet breeze.

She was almost completely past him, her heart in her throat and her blood pumping vigorously in her veins, every nerve alive with anticipation and the need to bolt from his predatory creature, when he finally moved.

Sans, closing his sockets and shaking his head, sighed, exhaling a large cloud of nicotine rich smoke, and removed one of his hands from his coat pockets to pull his cigarette from between his teeth, tsking and uncrossing his ankles.

“so you’re really goin’ for it, even with my warnin’. maybe i just didn’t make it clear to ya… so i’ll say it one more time,” he mused, considering her with something far harder and more intent than his former flippancy in his sockets; he pushed himself away from the sentry station, so that he was standing at his full height (Frisk felt her heart shudder, as he towered over her, almost having forgotten how big he was), and flicked his cigarette away, into the chasm that yawned at her back.

“as ya stand now, you’re about ta step over the line. you’ve pushed and pushed, and you’re at the end of your rope, and my patience. i’m gonna hafta beat some of that confidence outta you no matter what. you can turn back, though, and come ta me. i’ll still punish ya, but i’ll be lenient,” he offered, and held his hand out to her in a clear beckoning, his bony palm up and fingers clawed in expectancy.

Sans wasn’t done, though, and as he continued, his expression sank into hateful, threatening reprimand, his smile twisting into a snarl and his voice sinking to a feral growl.

“but if you take one more step, bitch, you’re fucked three ways from tuesday. there will be  _ no _ mercy from me,” he snarled, blood red magic sparking across his bones and from his narrowed, intense sockets, and he thrust his hand out towards her further, indicating that she make her decision.

The furred ruff around the collar of his coat shifted on the breath of wind blowing in from the tunnel Frisk had just left, the only motion between the two of them as he waited for her compliance; Frisk, tense with the desire to run but also the instinct to take his hand, to preserve her health as much as possible, was just as frozen, staring at the menacing, threatening monster with wide, tear blurred eyes and a heaving, breathless chest.

This was it. This was the dividing line, the end of her captor’s tolerance. He was giving her one last chance to avoid an indescribable amount of pain, humiliation, and indecency… and she’d be lying if she claimed that she didn’t want to accept his dubious peace offering, if she tried to say that her hand wasn’t twitching towards his, towards the olive branch being extended her.

She couldn’t live as his prisoner, though. There was still a chance that she could escape him, that she could get back to her Sans (somehow)… and she wasn’t going to give that up just to save her own skin.

So, with her mind screaming obscenities at her and her blood turning to ice, she kept her hands firmly at her sides, her whole body shuddering in fear and reluctance and adrenaline, and took that final, deadly step backwards, resolutely defiant.

Sans, at her decisive motion, let out a rumbling growl, dropping his hand to his side and sneering; he advanced on her a step, making a quickly stifled squeal of fear leap to Frisk’s tongue, and clenched his once extended hand into a fist, the bones popping and cracking ominously.

“have it your way,” he snapped, his magic flaring to life in his empty, furious gaze, and Frisk, not willing to wait around and see any more, turned tail and fled, her boots skidding against the slick stone floor of the cave as she ran into the next room, one of the notorious puzzles that the Underground had to offer lying in her path.

It was a fairly simple one, thankfully, just some boulders floating down a high speed river, and though she momentarily considered diving into the cave that sheltered under the waterfall that fed the offshoot of the rolling tide beyond the room, she knew he would see her running for it, and that she would be trapped there.

As such, she ran straight past it, dodging a few large rocks and splashing through the current determinately; she heard though, almost right behind her, just as quick and dogged footsteps, accompanied by much larger splashes, and nearly leaped out of her skin when a claw snagged in her hair, only kept from gaining a stronger hold by its unfettered state.

She ducked, yelping and quivering, and kicked one of the passing rocks behind her, hoping to at least stymie her pursuer, before running full tilt into the next cavern, containing a trap composed of those odd flowers that bloomed when you made a line of four of them in the water.

Frisk very quickly snatched up an armful of the seeds as she ran past the patch where they grew, hurriedly tossing them into the narrow channel of muddy, stinking water so she could pass.

She could hear Sans’ heavy footfalls behind her, could feel his gaze on her back and his snapping, angry magic in the air, and as she waited impatiently for the flowers to bloom, to allow her passage, tears of desperation and fear leaked from her nervous, panicked eyes, her hands jumpy and shaking at her sides.

She dared not look behind her, to see how close he was, when she finally was able to make her way across the makeshift bridge, nearly falling into the water when she tripped over her own feet, and skidded her way into the next room, her eyes flashing between the two opposing exits to the room in her flighty alarm.

Thankfully, she remembered the way out of this cavern, that the passage on the left lead to a dead end, a cave containing only a single echo flower and a lonely bench, and sprinted to towards the exit at the top of the cave, ignoring the puzzle entirely to leap over the quickly flowing, muck filled rivulet.

She barely made it, slipping on the edge of the river bank and coating her boots in scummy, stinking mud (damnit, damnit, she would leave footprints now…), but scrambled up nevertheless and ran towards the next series of tunnels, the wishing room, if she recalled correctly.

When she ducked into the room, usually alight with crystals and the glow of echo flowers, she found the long, often visited, well cared for tunnel abandoned, the crystals on the ceiling painted a grisly red and the echo flowers gone, except for ragged stumps extending from the ground.

Frisk covered her mouth in horror, the dull red the room shone with casting her skin, and everything she could see, into a sickening shade of crimson, but couldn’t afford to stay long, to wonder at the change as ever she did with the odd and often disturbing sceneries in this twisted shade of a universe, and ran on to the end of the room…

Only to find it gone, blocked, absent.

She was  _ trapped _ .

She began to panic immediately, sweating and panting from her exertion; she placed her hands flat on the wall before her, used to there being a doorway there and floundering at being wrong. Her confusion put her at odds with her memory, and she strained to think, fought with her recollections of this place, tried  _ desperately _ to remember.

What was different? What was wrong here? There had to be a way out… there  _ had _ to be.

It was just as she was beginning to despair, her entire body shaking and quivering in hopelessness and fear, that she remembered the telescope that once stood against the wall behind her. The telescope, pointed up at the ceiling, that had spelled out instructions.

_ Check wall _ .

She started to dig frantically at the wall with her fingers, breaking away pieces of old mud and paint and roots, when she heard, from the other side of the cavern, a long, low chuckle, the red glow of the room brightening just the smallest amount.

Her shadow was thrown, wavering and thin and so, so small, against the cracking cave wall in front of her (it was finally starting to break down, shining a dull, blue, familiar glow and the crashing with the rush of the river from beyond), and, letting out a desperate, terrified sob, Frisk pulled at a particularly large section of the wall in earnest, her fingers worn and her knuckles starting to bleed.

Frisk could hear him getting closer, the scrape of his heels and the clink of the chain at his side, and bit back a whimper, tearing frantically at the rubble she was far too slowly breaking away.

She heard Sans laugh again, too close for comfort, could feel his magic crackling at her back; there was no humor in his chuckle, only malice and cruelty and thick, cloying irony, like a poisonous fume, choking her and sending shards of ice and dread through her heart.

“faster, whore… don’t let the scary monster catch ya,” he mocked, his deep, harrowing voice filling the room and her mind and every one of her senses, and Frisk, horrified into action (no… no, no, no, she couldn’t let him catch her…), leapt at the hole she had dug, squeezing through it with frantic, scrambling twists and strains.

Her hair caught on a root, pulling painfully and ripping a few strands out; a rock dug into her cheek, opening her skin and sending a hot trickle of blood down her chin to drip onto her sweater. But on she struggled, gasping and choking on dust and her own tears, to finally, with one last, herculean strain, fall onto the wooden platform beyond the wall.

Above her, through the crack that she had managed to force her way through, extended the grasping, clawed hand of her pursuer, swiping blindly for her, and, hurriedly, Frisk scrambled away and to her feet, clasping at her chest to restrain her thundering heart (he had been so close to catching her…  _ too _ close…), before turning and sprinting further into the gathering darkness of the caves, knowing full well that, ahead, was the long, narrow bridge that seemed to go on forever, leading to the echo flower swamps.

She, at least, seemed to have an edge of speed on the large, girthy skeleton monster, guaranteed, she hoped, at least a few moments while he forced his way through the wall as well; as long as she didn’t block herself into another dead end, maybe she really could outrun him. Maybe he couldn’t teleport all the time, as he hadn’t done so thus far in their chase… she’d never bothered to ask her Sans what his limit was, when it came to that.

Maybe… maybe she really could get away.

Frisk didn’t waste time on her wonderment, running headlong down the wooden platform that did, indeed, lead to the long bridge over the widest part of the river, thick with weeds, washes of mud and refuse, and dark patches of shadow; the ancient, runic signs, detailing the monsters’ banishment and imprisonment, were mysteriously missing from the walls beside the bridge, but Frisk had no mind to pay that detail, instead running along the wooden bridge as quickly as she could manage.

Her boots clomping across the old, in some places rotted, boards sent a hollow, echoing thudding through the large, dripping cavern, somehow even louder than the rush of the river through the reeds and trash, and as she ran, Frisk’s heart started to settle, her uninterrupted dash through the long, water saturated tunnel bolstering her spirits.

She wanted to slow her run to a brisk walk, unwilling to stop completely even in her greater confidence, just in case she was lulling herself into a false sense of security (which was entirely possible, given the nature of her pursuer), but she didn’t dare, her hammering heart and dirty skin and stinging cheek reminding her of how close the monster in her wake had been only one room ago.

For the first time, since she had left Sans’ presence after disobeying him for the umpteenth time, Frisk looked behind herself, dread but vain hope singing in her constricted heart; in the thunder of the river, of the swish of water against stone and plant life and wood, she imagined herself as having a sizable lead on her skeletal captor.

Surely, due to him having to dig through the rest of the wall to fit his much larger frame, he would be, if not completely out of sight, then a good distance behind herself, enough that she would be able to throw him off in the swamps.

Surely, since she couldn’t hear him in her wake, he wasn’t as near to her as her instincts screamed that he was.

Surely… surely she had some sort of advantage over him. It wasn’t possible that he held all the cards in this twisted game.

But as she looked over her shoulder as she ran, entering the part of the tunnel that was flanked by monumental columns and continued on in a nonsensical, erratic building pattern (Frisk could only assume Undyne had ordered the bridge built the way it was intentionally, as some sort of puzzle or riddle; all it really did was make it really hard to dodge spears), she nearly tripped and fell over an uneven board, awkward in her fumbling and her realization.

Not only was Sans within sight, in the press of the dark… he was mere feet from her, stalking along in her wake with incredible ease, hands in his pants’ pockets and his devilish, dire grin glinting with the cerulean of the glowing mosses and the crimson of his own bloodthirsty magic.

His smile only grew wider as she spotted him, watching her fall over her own feet and struggle to right herself, to scramble as well as she could for purchase on the briny, slick planks of wood and to dodge around the twists and turns of the bridge that stretched into the darkness ahead of them both.

As ever, his smirk held no amusement, only bald, punitive threat and the aura of murder, and his narrowed, infuriated gaze snapped with homicidal power, throwing a mist of pale red past his skull to join the fog that rose from the river.

He chuckled darkly, not in fondness, but in sadistic, satisfied malice, and walked on, giving no quarter and no illusions of victory.

“don’t stop now, bitch… keep runnin’, fast as ya can,” he called out to her as he followed her into the dark, relentless and unforgiving in his hapless rage, before he came to a split in the bridge; if he went the way Frisk had been forced to, if he turned to take the winding way of the wooden platforms, he would lose ground on her.

Frisk knew this, grateful, at last, for the meandering nature of the bridge, and found a smirk of her own, under her cloying, choking, fear, before turning back to shoot the monster in her wake a victorious glare…

Only to see his form, across the swirling, empty space in the bridge, flicker and shift before disappearing entirely, and reappear, with a snap, a cloud of red mist, and a disparaging sneer, on the other side of the split.

“it’ll never be fast enough. never far enough, not ta escape me,” he assured her caustically, never pausing in his stride despite his sudden leap through space, and Frisk felt, not for the first or last time, her heart plummet into her stomach.

Not fair. Not fair, in  _ any _ way.

She didn’t pause long, in the wake of her discovery of how he was keeping up with her at the unhurried saunter he was employing (she should have figured he was teleporting… he didn’t have any dirt on him, from where he would have had to squeeze through the wall), and, biting back a sob of futility and frustration and soul shaking fear, turned on her heel to continue on, gasping for breath and slipping more and more often and shaking in her chafing, damp boots.

The question was, though, why he was following along in her path instead of just flashing in front of her and stopping her in her tracks. There was no way that she would be able to dodge around him, if he stood in her way.

Surely he knew that.

Was he doing this on purpose, then? Torturing her, with the knowledge that she truly couldn’t escape him, no matter how far or how fast she ran? Was he really so cruel as to put her through this terrifying chase to humble her, toying with her, a cat with its dinner, to make her realize that she was  _ nothing _ compared to him and his power?

Was this his punishment for her running from him, sending her into a state of catatonia within her own mind and body… or did he intend to do more, once he caught her?

She considered, after that wonderment, just flinging herself into the rushing river, ending her misery before her tormentor could extend it any further, but dismissed the thought with a determined shake of her head, scrambling around another sharp, unnecessary turn in the long bridge that she was running down as quickly as she could.

She couldn’t stop now… she had things, and people, to live for. Her mother, her friends… Sans. The monster she intended to spend the rest of her life with.

She had to press on.

And so she ran, on and on through the dark and the swirling river and the glow of the mosses that clung to the columns and the roof of the cavern, until, at last, an end to the narrow, unescapable bridge came into sight (she had barely dodged being grabbed three times, while she hurriedly wove around the twists and turns of the bridge); around a bend in the river was a far smaller tunnel, fed by an offshoot of the river.

It was set on stable, solid ground and walled in with high, close together stalagmites, and, growing thick and tall from the gravel on the wet ground, was a thicket of sea grass, the “rare” and familiar plant that crowded and choked the byways of Waterfall.

Frisk had hidden from enemies in those grasses before, had even avoided being captured by Undyne while sheltering in it, and had a sudden upsurge of hope, seeing the swaying, brownish green strands of grounded kelp; if she could hide in there, and make Sans think that she had run past it, she could slip away from his watchful sockets and take an alternate path through the swamps.

She could throw him off her path at last.

As such, with a hasty glance thrown behind her as she, at last, stepped off the bridge and onto solid ground (Sans was, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, out of sight, just around the bend of the cavern wall, if the flickering shadows of conflicting red and blue were to be believed), Frisk snatched up a rock from the loose gravel on the ground, dove headfirst into the weeds, and army crawled hastily so that she was pressed against the wall, one hand held over her mouth to quiet her haggard breathing and the other tossing the rock she had scooped up further down the tunnel, to give the effect that she had kept running.

From her shelter, she couldn’t tell it if had worked, her sight obscured completely by the waving fronds of sea grass and her ears filled with the sound of the crashing river and the shifting weeds around her; she sat as still as she could, in her place against the stalagmites, eyes flicking blindly around her enclosure and ears straining for  _ any _ indication that she had been successful.

She heard nothing, for a moment so long that she nearly convinced herself that she was safe… before being shocked nearly out of her boots by an object spearing through the grasses around her and thudding into the wall an inch from her head, crackling with magic and menace.

It was a cracked, sharpened bone, and was composed of glowing red, sparking magic.

“don’t bother hidin’, idiot. i told ya… i can feel your soul. its useless ta try. this whole charade is, to be honest, but hey, keeps me outta workin’. can’t complain,” came the harshly amused voice of her enemy, from the entrance of the tunnel; he hadn’t been fooled for a moment, suddenly seeming to have been telling the truth when he had been menacing her in the woods hours before (Frisk’s heart sank nearly into her shoes at the thought, a chill sinking into her bones), and Frisk, shamed by his candor and mocking, crawled from the bed of sea grass and to her feet, staring at the monster across the tunnel from her with both fear and loathing.

Sans was reclining against the wall of mineral formations, watching the spot that he had thrown the bone with impatient hedonism and a second, incredibly deadly looking bone spinning between his fingers; the moment she rose from the weeds and stood, trembling and fearful, across the tunnel from her, he stood back up, dismissing the second bone with a snap of his fingers.

He snickered maliciously at her expression of thwarted ignominy, at the sea grass stuck in her hair and the way she held herself, as though to keep her body from falling to pieces where she stood.

“there ya are… nice try, but no dice. go on then… ‘less you’re tired of our little game already,” he derided, waving a hand towards the far off entrance to the next series of tunnels, and Frisk, frustrated tears pressing at her wide, tremulous gaze, choked on a panicked sob, clutching at her dewey sweater.

“Just leave me alone!” she shouted at him, her knees quaking in her failing strength and confidence (why was she still running? What was the point? How was she going to get away now?), and Sans, his lethal grin only growing, laughed outright, throwing his head back in scornful, sardonic delight, before advancing a step on his prey, the human that had dared to defy him, forcing her to take an alarmed, trembling step back, slipping in the mossy, slimy gravel.

“how ‘bout no. get your ass movin’, if you’re gonna keep on. you’re diggin’ yourself such a nice, deep grave, after all… why stop now? keep diggin’,” he invited in a sinister drawl, vindictive and harsh, before his smirk dropped away entirely, the entirety of his displeasure and his unrestrained rage and his intent plain on his skeletal, hateful visage.

“make your punishment worse,” he snarled, his fangs gritting and his magic flaring aggressively, and Frisk, unable to contain the whimper she let out at his coercions, stumbled back another foot, quailing under the pressure of the monster’s stare and anger and threats all.

She had to move… she couldn’t stand here staring at him, prey caught in the baleful gaze of its predator; she had to run, to keep trying. Not just to amuse him, but to do her very best to make good on her escape.

She couldn’t give up now.

As such, Frisk stood up straighter, glaring through her tears at the skeletal fiend stalking towards her across the tunnel, and shot him the bird before turning tail and fleeing.

“F-fuck you!” she shouted over her shoulder, sprinting past the pier extending into the far calmer section of the river that fed the swamps ahead and into the room beyond (the mouse still hadn’t gotten the cheese out of that crystal… poor thing. She wished she had time to stop and help it), and behind her, Sans let out a sharp bark of laughter, his smile returning and glinting with malice and murder.

“that’s the plan, sugartits,” he muttered to himself, inserting his hands back into his pants’ pockets and giving chase.

Frisk, for her part, smelled the stench and mildew of the approaching swamps with relief as she skidded into one of the largest caverns that Waterfall boasted, bypassing the spot that Sans had once stood tricking people into looking into his booby-trapped telescope (her stomach soured, as she looked on the empty section of wall he had once leaned against, inviting her closer with his welcoming grin and his mischief laden gaze; gods above, she missed him… so much…) to finally pass into the wide open fields of the Echo Flower Swamp, spread as far as the eye could see and cross sectioned with rickety bridges and meandering roads.

She immediately halted, though, when the road split into three, staring at the many differing paths that could be taken.

Panic started to bubble as her memory, for the second time during her run, failed her; she was drawing a blank. She knew that the northern path led to a cave where the Nice Cream Guy had once sold his wares, but the other two… which one should she take? If she was recalling correctly, Onion-san lived around here, so maybe one of them led to his section of the river… and there was also that bird monster that helped people across the mire.

But in addition to that, there were many, many dead ends, and the path that took the scenic route through the marsh, the echo flowers telling a tale of those that had already passed by.

She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t remember… she had no idea what path to take.

Her panic only rose when, from behind her, she heard the hard, coldly entertained voice of her pursuer, still at a distance but close enough to hear him over the burble and pop of the slow moving waters of the swamp.

“which way, which way… don’t remember, do ya? been too long,” he disparaged in a sing song voice, grating and gruff in his superiority and annoyance; he emerged from the shadows, stepping into the turquoise glow of the echo flowers, to sneer at the vacillating girl before him, eerie shadows thrown across his face.

Frisk ignored him the best she could, though her decision on which road to take was made far more hastily, given his presence, and finally turned to race down the southern path, making her way into the stinking marshes with determination in her every stride.

Sans only chuckled at that, tall enough to see her over the waving heads of the echo flowers, and followed along in her wake, at ease in his environment.

“ya might as well give up now, girlie. you’re just gonna get yourself lost. i’ve been down here three hundred fuckin’ years… can you really say ya know this place better than me?” he called out to her mockingly, sneakers squeaking against the wet stone he strode across at his leisure, and Frisk, nearly slipping and falling into the mire, sent the monster behind her a hateful glare as she regained her footing and continued on, weaving along the long, twisting path.

The road split again, ahead, leading either right or left, but this time Frisk didn’t hesitate, running headlong down the right path and along a wooden bridge into the shadowy dark, heart in her throat and confidence quavering.

He was right, of course, at least in one fashion… she had falsely assumed, since he lived in Snowdin, that he wouldn’t be as familiar with the paths of Waterfall. She had forgotten, in her foolish ignorance, that he watched the roads here as part of his job. Of course he would know the tunnels far better than she did, a human that hadn’t been in the caves for over a decade.

Stupid,  _ stupid _ …

Frisk shook her head, dismissing her doubts as best she could as she charged headlong through the marsh, a low roofed, mushroom filled cave coming into view ahead. He might have the edge, but she wasn’t going to stop running just because of that.

Rather, she realized with a cold trickle of horror and belated understanding running down her spine, she was going to stop running because she had just boxed herself in. Ahead of her, ringed by a circle of glowing, humming toadstools, was a patch of sea grass, standing alone in the center of a round, smooth walled cavern.

The only exit of which she had just entered.

She began to tremble in earnest, flicking her gaze over the cave walls and hoping for anything,  _ any _ indication of a possible escape route, before turning on her heel and, with vain hope, taking a cautious step back the way she had come.

Perhaps he hadn’t seen her take this road… maybe he hadn’t caught up yet, and she could slip around him…

Seeing Sans’ terrifying, victorious grin appearing out of the darkness before her answered her inward questioning, sending a sickness of inevitability and terror into the pit of her stomach and her reeling backwards, her heel catching on a patch of mushrooms and sending her to the ground.

Sans watched her fall to the cave floor with open, disdainful pleasure, watched her expression transform in mind bending fright at his casual approach, and shrugged his broad shoulders, shaking his head slowly, scornfully, a dark note of laughter carried on his deep, resounding voice.

“you lose, darlin’. time ta pay the piper,” he crooned at her cruelly, advancing on her another decisive, shuffling step, and Frisk, bile rising in her throat and dread shaking her limbs, pushed herself backwards across the floor, holding out a hand in supplication, in denial of his approach, hot, petrified tears pricking at her eyes.

No… no, it couldn’t end like this…

“Stop… stop, get away…” she whimpered, though even as she spoke the words, she knew that it was pointless to try to reason with the conscienceless beast stalking her across the cave floor, and was answered with a husky, dismissive snort, the skeleton monster advancing on her narrowing his sockets and curling a bony lip in disdain.

“nope. you’ve gone far enough, and i’m tired of chasin’ ya. now… the  _ real _ fun can begin,” he assured her, his smile devoid of pity and anything but his burgeoning hunger, his need for her subjugation and his promised castigation, and came to a stop at his quarry’s feet, halting her crawling escape by stomping a large, uncaring shoe down on top of one of her scrabbling boots.

Frisk struggled to pull her foot out from under his for a moment, crazed in her need to continue her escape, before giving up and looking, with tear filled, frightened eyes, up at her captor, shrinking back from his vicious, wrathful expression meekly.

“Sans… Sans,  _ please _ … don’t…” she whispered, leaning away from him and quailing in absolute, abject distress, but Sans had had enough of her and her running, of her denials and her attempts to refuse him what was owed him, by right and rule, and reaching out a clawed hand to, roughly, seize the girl on the ground by the chin, jerking her up out of her cowering entreaty to kneel at his feet.

“please  _ nothin’ _ , unless you’re beggin’ for my cock. i warned you what would happen, what you needed ta do to avoid this, but ya gave up your chance for mercy. stepped all over my offers. so now you can reap your reward,” he growled at her with hard, merciless wrath in his rumbling voice, stroking a thumb over her spread, trembling lips slowly (his grin glinted hungrily, when he felt her breath against his bones), before, with a sharp snarl, he released her chin to curl his phalanges into her hair, yanking her up from the ground by it.

Frisk let out a cry of pain immediately, hands flashing up to clutch the monster’s wrist to try to ease his grip and feet scrambling to hold her weight, to lessen the pain that was sending her already beaded tears streaking down her dirty, bloody cheeks, but his grip was strong and immovable as he dragged her across the small cave, strides long and unwavering.

“Ahh… ahh! Stop, it hurts!” she yelped when she stumbled, the pressure on her scalp all but blinding her, but Sans, in his wrath, had no mercy to spare for her situation and, reaching his destination, swung his captured prey forward and into the stone wall of the cave, burying her face in the mosses there and pinning her to the rock face with a hard, unforgiving hand pressed to one of her shoulders and his pelvis pushing against her backside.

He pulled her head to the side, once he had gotten her settled, to push his fanged mouth against her ear, his breath hot and humid against her flesh.

“that’s the fuckin’ point, bitch. i got no pity for you, not after that bullshit, so shut your fuckin’ mouth… unless you want me ta use it for its intended purpose,” he threatened, bucking his hips to accentuate his warning, and Frisk, cheek scraped raw by the stone she was being pushed against and entire body trembling, flushed in disgrace.

“N… n-no, please…” she pled haltingly, the hands she still had curled around his wrist clenching, but Sans, impatient in his anger and need, ignored her, pulling back to send his gaze, glowing a bright, crackling crimson, down her pinioned body, releasing her shoulder to trace her form through her matted, damp sweater and skin tight, filthy black jeans, pulling at her tied on parka to drop it to the cave floor, out of his way.

“hmmm… i like the digs ya picked out. you look good in black,” he complimented gruffly, squeezing her hip in a large palm, before moving his hand around her front, smoothing his fingers up her torso, under her sweater, to pull it up over her breasts; his smirk was satisfied and hungry, when he encountered no resistance from underclothes, his clawed hand cupping one of her breasts eagerly.

“thought so. no bra…” he hummed, groping her soft flesh and pinching her nipple roughly (Frisk clenched her teeth to hold back an instinctual moan, wanting to push her chest further into his hand even as she felt a retch rear in her throat, her clashing desires clouding her mind), and bent forward to lap the tip of his tongue up his captive’s cheek and the curve of her ear, snickering ruthlessly.

“what a fuckin’ whore.”

He chuckled again when she whined in fright and ignominy, shoving her face forwards against the stone wall once more in indication that she should keep it there before he released her hair (he combed his fingers through the tangled locks in a near caress, almost gentle, as though savoring the feeling) to feel blindly for the clasp on her jeans, pulling at the button distractedly while, at the same moment, rolling her stiffened nipple between the fingers of his other hand, trying his damnedest to wring a moan from her.

Frisk resisted, though, swallowing every pleasured noise that rose to her tongue; she was determined to thwart him, at least as much as she could. She wasn’t going to lose herself to him like she had last night. She wasn’t going to feel… she wasn’t going to let him make it feel good for her.

That was what she insisted to herself, at least, trying to spite her body into inaction… and failing miserably, the rasp of his bony fingers on her already overly sensitive breast driving shivers of pleasure into her abdomen and making her knees weak.

She wouldn’t give in… she w-wouldn’t…

Sans, though lost to his own passions (she could feel his burgeoning wrath in the shuddering, animalistic growls rolling in his hollow chest, in the hardness of his hands on her body and the huskiness of his voice), wasn’t blind to this, and smirked arrogantly against her neck, his teeth scraping her skin and his hand pausing in its stroking to move to her other breast, caressing her almost fondly.

“makes things easier for me, ‘course… ‘s a damn good idea, in fact. maybe i’ll just never let ya wear any underwear again. they just get in the way…” he mused jeeringly, clawed hand cupping her unfettered flesh greedily, and finally succeeded in popping the button on her jeans, eagerly ripping her zipper down so he could push her pants out of the way, shifting his hips back so they could slide down to bunch around her knees, at the tops of her boots.

He took a moment to admire her posterior, his sockets glowing with savage pleasure and his tongue dripping from between his fangs ravenously; he brought both of his hands to her hips, feeling the material of the panties she had restored to herself only that morning.

His growl of gratification sent chills down the pinned, trembling girl’s back, her freed hands balling against the cave wall and her teeth digging into her lower lip. She dared not look back to see his expression… she didn’t want another reminder of his sexual avarice.

Sans, caught up in his tactile distraction, breathed out haggardly, his exhalation brushing the bare flesh revealed by Frisk’s pushed up sweater (her hair stood on end, her skin rising in gooseflesh at the feeling) and his grin dripping with longing.

“and just as i say that, i wanna take it back.  _ fuck _ , that’s sexy. red silk… your ass looks like a fuckin’ present, wrapped up all pretty for me…” he purred, a claw tracing along the pattern and elastic on the underwear softly, before he fisted a hand into the material, tensed, and ripped it from her body entirely, shocking a yelp from Frisk, from the sting of pressure the tearing article placed on her skin and her sudden nakedness both.

Sans laughed at the sound of her surprise, sending her a direly amused look, before lifting her shredded panties to his face and, humiliatingly (Frisk’s face turned bright red, her heart stuttering in her chest and, astoundingly, her abdomen clenching), sniffing them before tossing them to the ground, his gaze set on the torn pile of fabric with disappointment.

“such a damn waste,” he tsked, shaking his head, before turning his sockets back to her, his smile ratcheting up a notch as he looked luridly on her bared ass, his hands returning to her flesh to grope and squeeze and stroke without quarter.

Frisk was shaking helplessly now, terrified and more stimulated than she ever wanted to be by this terrible monster, and, grasping at the frayed threads of her control and determination, dared to try to pull away from his touch, breathing haltingly through her nose.

She wasn’t very surprised by his refusal of her movement, by him grasping roughly (and painfully; his claws dug into her skin unforgivingly, scraping and drawing blood) at her hips to keep her in place, but kept trying despite his snarl of petulance and his firm hold on her, squirming and forcing an entreaty through her trembling lips.

“Sans, no… please, I’ll… I’ll do anything to make this up to you,  _ please _ …” she offered him plaintively, desperate for an escape that didn’t end with her under him  _ again _ , with his hands on her body and his… him taking everything from her, all over again…

He didn’t even consider her tentative plea, though, raising one hand to clench around the back of her neck, shoving her face against the cave wall again with the rumble of a threatening growl on his grating voice.

“didn’t i tell you to shut the fuck up? if i wanted to hear your excuses, i wouldn’ta pushed you face first into a fuckin’ wall. you’ll take what’s comin’ to ya, what  _ you _ decided ta provoke,” he snapped, baring his fangs in a vicious snarl and clenching his fingers around the back of her neck discouragingly (his hand was so large that his fingers wrapped almost all the way around, the tips of his claws pressing dangerously to the beat of her pulse), even as his free hand shoved itself between her legs, feeling roughly along the seam of her thighs, searching for her entrance.

It didn’t take him long, even in his impatience and given her nervous writhing, and the moment he felt her entrance against his fingertips, he forced two fingers into her, to the bony knuckle; the motion stole her breath from her body immediately, her back arching and her eyes widening.

His fingers were nowhere near as thick as his cock was, the insertion not nearly as painful as his dominating, punishing fervor the night before, but they were not small, either; she was not prepared for the suddenness and intensity of his vehemence, for the stretch of him in her, still sore and aching and unused to anything but her own hands, and nearly screamed, her core clenching around his phalanges and tears building in her eyes.

“ _ Ahhhh _ ! Gahh, n-no…” she cried, whimpering fitfully and struggling to pull away from his invasive touch, the feeling of fullness and intimacy and unwilling pleasure his demanding presence within her elicited, but Sans had no mind to spare her whining or her denials, kicking her feet as far apart as they would go (she was hobbled by her pants bunched around her calves) and dragging her body lower so he could, with vicious impunity, start pumping his fingers in and out of her, the pull of her fearful and unprepared core pleasing him implicitly and bringing a crooked, starved smirk to his fanged mouth.

“eh heh… good fuckin’ stars, how are you still so tight after last night? you humans are such good little fucktoys, aren’tcha? hot, and wet as sin, and tighter than a damn  _ vice _ ,” he prompted rhetorically, tilting his head so he could watch rabidly as his fingers sank into her heated, flushed flesh, coming away wetted with her unwilling arousal.

He stroked her clenched walls with long, slow strokes, enjoying the feeling of her clutching him close when he pulled out and tried to resist when he pushed back in, before, with a flash of inspiration, Sans, his smirk sharp and wicked, forced his fingers as far into her as they would go (which was a considerable distance, his fingertips brushing her cervix and nearly forcing a haggard, wanton keen from her, only held back when she bit her tongue so hard it bled), crooked his claws gently, and then scissored her center, watching her spread entrance with ardent longing and expectation.

His expression, when a thick, glowing trickle of scarlet magic seeped from within her to coat his phalanges, was one of gratified victory, his grin dripping with drool and his chest rumbling with something close to a purr, pleased and contented with his discovery.

“and still holdin’ onta my cum, nearly a whole fuckin’ day later... that’s some  _ damn _ good pussy,” he growled huskily, admiring the look of the congealed magic against her skin a moment longer, before resuming his motion, his hand speeding into a bruising frenzy, aided in his endeavor by the lubrication of his own liquid magic.

Frisk, where she was pressed up against the wall, was all but floored by the sensation of his fingers curling and pressing inside her, the rough drag of the bony protrusions of his phalanges and the wet, hard meeting of his palm to her center each time he seated himself within her; she couldn’t believe herself, how she could be  _ enjoying _ having her captor, her torturer, forcing himself into her body,  _ again _ , but there it was, the growing heat and the impassioned fog over her mind, removing her from the reality that she was being forcefully ravaged and driving her to distraction.

She noticed, hazily, that she had stopped struggling, found herself wishing that he would shift his thumb up to touch her throbbing, wanting clit as he stroked his fingers in and out of her pussy, and immediately began her fight anew, shaking away her haze of lust and struggling to pull away from him.

“P… p-please… Sans…” she supplicated, trying to close her thighs around his fingers and escape his clutching hands, but Sans was having none of it, pushing her legs apart again with one foot, as easily as if she hadn’t moved at all, forcing her to bend lower with a hard, dominating hand placed on her lower back, and renewing the punishing force of his motion by not only shifting his hand so that his every thrust would go as deep as possible, but also forcing a third phalange inside her, stretching her so wide that it was nearly comparable to having his cock in her.

He smirked broadly at the shocked, stimulated noise his little mate let out at that, and shifted his stance to bend over her prostration, sneering at what of her face he could see through her mussed hair.

“’s right... say my name.  _ beg _ . won’t get you anywhere, but it turns me the  _ fuck _ on…” he chuckled nastily, pausing in the hard, rough plunges of his hand to grind his palm against her and stroke  _ that _ spot inside her, forcing a keening, weak wail of unbridled pleasure from her reluctant lips (she flushed in mortification, afterwards clasping her mouth shut tightly and breathing heavily through her nose), then cast his sparking gaze over her sweat streaked, trembling form, pride in his ability to pleasure her in his wide grin.

“lookit you… a fuckin’ wreck. you’ve never gotten finger fucked, have ya? tch… your pathetic excuse for a boyfriend couldn’t even do that for ya. good thing you got me now, huh? i’ll fuck you in every way you can think of… and a few ya can’t, heh,” he crowed pridefully, excitement and desperate, growing hunger in his visage and the rough thrust of his fingers into her core, stoking an inferno in her lower abdomen and speeding her heart into a gallop, and Frisk, shaking from fear and sexual stimulation both, shook her head numerous times, the tears building in her eyes falling to wet her cheeks and dot the mossy floor between her spread, booted feet.

“No…  _ no _ , no more… I don’t want it…” she begged haltingly, clutching at the wall for balance and praying to every god, every star, in the sky for relief, for an escape from the brute that fate had placed her in the hands of, and Sans, his expression sinking from hard, punishing detriment and into rejection, snarled bitterly, ripping his fingers out of her dripping, quivering folds to curl his arousal and cum stained hand into her hair, yanking her up and dragging her cheek against the wall all over again, scraping her face raw.

He pulled her back, hard and unrelenting, against his chest, his free hand digging into her hip with punishing, cruel menace, and bent his head to growl warningly against her ear, his grin not one of amusement or pleasure, but the bared fangs of rage, animosity, and vengeance.

“what’s that, dollface?  _ more _ ? greedy as fuck… but chasin’ your fine ass and watchin’ you wet yourself over your punishment’s got me in a bit of a… tight spot myself,” he snarled in a deadly murmur, grinding his hips against her bare ass, the evidence of his arousal pressing, heavy and thick and wanting, against her, before he shoved her back against the wall, ignoring her cry of pain and fear in favor of, one handed, undoing his belt buckle and lowering his zipper, glowering at the tears wending down Frisk’s face.

“why don’t we take care of that, huh?” he threatened, shoving his jeans down far enough to release his erection, and Frisk, seeing the glow of his magic and his fully realized intent from the corner of one eye, tried to remove his hand from her hair, desperately pulling at his immovable, clenched fingers and whimpering in her terror.

No… no, he  _ couldn’t _ … he had threatened to do this to her again, to rape her until she was incapable of running from him again, but she had hoped he was bluffing. That his cruelty would only extend to forcing her to realize that he could do whatever he wanted to her… that he owned her…

Her struggles did nothing but annoy the large, girthy skeleton monster, though, making him slam her head against the wall to quell her fighting, and the hard, unforgiving contact sent stars exploding across her vision, her hands dropping away from his wrist to droop at her sides while she recovered, stunned and helpless.

He took immediate advantage of this, yanking her legs straight by his grip on her waist, arching her back in the same motion, and stepping closer to her to slide himself between her legs, and Frisk, still limp and struggling to shake the fuzz from her vision and the ringing from her ears, felt the hot, rigid length of him thrust against her entrance, slick from his attentions and bared to his whim.

She squirmed weakly, trying to resist, but his hold on her was too firm, and her strength nothing compared to his.

“No! No, don’t! Please, Sans, you  _ can’t _ …” she plead in a last ditch effort to appeal to him, to touch on the occasional benevolence that he displayed, but Sans had had enough of her resistance, and shoved himself, to the hilt, into her quaking, tiny body, cutting off her plea with the sting and reality of the futility of her defiance.

He owned her, could do whatever he wanted with her, whenever he chose… and she was the last person that would ever be able to stop him.

Sans laughed harshly at her yelp of agony, how she stilled beneath his hold on her, and yanked on her hair, dragging her head back and her body against his inexplicably; he jeered at the sideways, tearful glance back at him she gave, shifting his grip on her waist as he did.

“i can do whatever the hell i want… especially fuck you ‘til ya can’t see straight. now shut up and enjoy the ride, whore,” he spat, demanding and gruff, before pulling his hips back, nearly removing himself from her core entirely, and shoving himself back into her without restraint, his bared pelvis biting into her ass and the thickness of him spreading her further than she had ever thought possible.

Frisk, bent against the cavern wall and held in place by his hard, heavy hands, sobbed bitterly when he thrust into her again, choking on her tears and the pain of having him in her again; she couldn’t stand that feeling, the ectoplasmic manifestation of his lust driving into her, making her some receptacle for his desire and his wrathful malevolence and, once he finished, the magical residue of his pleasure.

She couldn’t imagine wanting this ever again, after this, couldn’t think of sex without retching and remembering the cruelty of what should have been loving and tender and with her beloved; she’d never get to sleep with her Sans, if she ever managed to find her way back to him at all.

She would be terrified, when he tried to touch her. She would look at him, and see nothing but his brutal, forever fuming and ruthless double, remember him forcing himself into her and making her feel pleasure and filling her with his disgusting seed. She’d never get to have this with him, her trust and her desire destroyed by another.

It wasn’t fair… it wasn’t fair, to him or her.

And so she cried, helpless and broken and jolting forwards against the wall of the cave that bore witness to her violation, her shuddering, quiet cries of pain and heartbreak echoing off the cavern ceiling, while Sans, expression locked into fury and vindictive justice, pumped himself into her wet, clutching core, his viscous tongue snaking between his fangs to lick at a trail of escaping drool.

He could hear her weeping, could hear her racking sobs of agony and loss, and knew what she cried for, the loss of the monster she wished he was, and snarled at her irately, his hands tightening on her skin and his thrusts speeding into hapless savagery.

All he wanted was for her to think of him. All he desired, in the entirety of the universe, was her acknowledgement of his claim on her. He had marked her. He had taken her virginity, planted his seed, felt her soul crying out for him.

And still she denied. And still, even as he joined their bodies in the oldest dance known to man or monster, she thought of another, a skeleton that she  _ would not let go _ , no matter how hard he fucked her or how many marks he left on her skin.

She would not come to him, would not see that she was his, as he was hers.

His soul throbbed painfully in his chest, reminding him of her rejection, and, furious and slighted and rash, Sans pulled his dripping cock from her body, shook his hand from her hair, and spun her around to pin her back against the wall, his shaking, wrathful fingers clenching around her throat.

She choked, on her constricting flesh and her fright both, looking up at him through her tears and her snot and her indescribable, humbled terror, and Sans’ soul hardened even further, the way she drew back from him sending him spiraling from rage and into a fuming, blind madness.

He whipped the back of his free hand across her face, her cry of pain and fear erupting from her newly bloodied lips, and slammed her back against the wall again, his fangs inches from her nose as he growled at her like a livid, rabid animal.

“quit your fuckin’ snivellin’ before i really give ya somethin’ to cry about,” he barked, shaking her by his hold on her throat once more before releasing her neck, lowering his hands to grasp roughly at her thighs, and picking her straight up off the ground, bending her legs up, in their tight bonds, so he could, without preamble or warning, thrust himself pelvis deep back into her core.

He gave her no time to adjust, instead immediately fucking her into the wall with all the force he could muster, and Frisk, left with no recourse but to cling to his broad shoulders for balance and grounding, cried out with each hard, hateful roll of his hips into her, burying her face in his neck and trembling from her withheld, determinately silent sobs.

Every inch of her hurt, from her split lip to her head to her too small core, being stretched too quickly and too harshly around her tormentor’s dick, but she was wary of his warning, scared to displease him further (he was terrifying right now, his magic flaring uncontrollably and his movements rough and cruel, like he was trying to crush her into dust with his body), and kept quiet, biting her tongue and crying harder than she ever had in her life and clinging, with desperate revulsion, to the ruff of her captor’s coat.

It was so soft and warm, the fur… she almost wished it didn’t smell like him, like cigarettes and blood and alcohol and bone. If it didn’t, she could close her eyes and pretend that she was in a cloud, let her body numb to the pain of Sans’ rutting into her body, to the scrape of the rock wall on her back, to the dig of his claws into her thighs, the small of her back.

But she couldn’t even pretend, couldn’t draw away from the reality of her repeated, mirrored violation; Sans didn’t let her, pushing his face into the crook of her neck to bite, with vicious, agonizing rigor, into the still healing wound he had inflicted on her the night before, her blood immediately welling around his sharpened teeth and spilling down her jolting breasts and sticking to the front of his jacket.

He growled at the taste of her blood, his tongue pressing into the wounds even as he bit deeper, his hips stilling to grind his cock, fully seated within her, against her cervix, and, overwhelmed by the pain, Frisk threw her head back and screamed, unintelligible pleas for mercy and forgiveness leaking past her lips.

The agony of his punishing fury, of his hard body forcing itself in and out of hers (he had resumed his furious thrusting the moment she had shrieked, his cock throbbing inside her in sadistic pleasure), was too much, so torturous and overwhelming, that Frisk could no longer feel any pleasure whatsoever, lost to the white hot sting of his teeth in her shoulder and his erection buried in her sore, sensitive core and his rough, forever grasping hands on her flesh.

She collapsed against his chest again, weak and shaking and helpless to his whim (just like he had said she was… just like he had  _ always _ said…), and Frisk, her hope and determination fleeing her at last, dug her fingers into her violator’s coat, all resistance melting away. Her face drooped to his neck, her lips a whisper from his cracked, straining vertebrae, and let her agony free, her tears dripping from her face to wet his t-shirt, her sobs forcefully silent.

He would be finished soon… and once he was done, she would bow like he wanted. She would let him do whatever he pleased to her, let him drag her to his house, to keep her like a pet, a slave, a  _ mate _ , whatever.

What was the use of resisting? It would only get her beaten, harassed, and raped. She couldn’t escape, couldn’t fight back, couldn’t hold him off… he was going to take anything that she tried to withhold.

Why try?

And so she relaxed, clenching her fingers in the thick material of his jacket and smearing blood from her lips across his shirt and breathing, haggard and broken, against the bare bone of his cervical vertebrae, and wept in the fullness of her quiet misery, her tears mixing with her blood as her violator filled the small, dark cave with his grunts and growls and panting exertion.

Sans, in his fervor, was more than aware of her emotional turmoil, of the way she pressed herself against him in her acquiescence, and, for a long, prideful moment, was almost ecstatic in her submission, gratified and supercilious and fulsome (of course, she would give in… that had always been the plan, what he expected of his mate; it had only been a matter of time, before she learned her role)…

Until he felt her breath, hitching and fluttering, against the bone of his neck. Until he felt her tears begin to leak through his shirt, dripping down the inside of his ribs like the rain that fell in these caves ceaselessly.

Until he felt her chest heave in a miserable, broken sob, noiseless but shattering.

It was then that he realized that he could feel her abdomen clenching in her fitful agony and bereavement, that what he had dared to assume was pleasure was actually insurmountable grief, of both body and soul, and though he wanted to be angry, even as lost as he was in the storm of his indignation, even as he reminded himself that she deserved this, that she had to be taught her place, he felt his soul throb in reflected sorrow, his temper simmering and clearing away enough of his ire to realize that, even though she had pushed him to this…

He didn’t have to make it hurt.

Sans was selfish, and still incensed, enough to know he wasn’t about to stop, the feeling of her clutching around his cock far too perfect to give up now, but he didn’t have to torture her. She was giving up so much already to him… so much that she had hoped to give to someone else, and that he had taken from her without remorse… she shouldn’t be afraid.

He wanted her submission, and the love she held for his other self… but not this. He didn’t want her fear, or her senseless pain.

He owed her more,  _ far _ more, that this kind of treatment… but this was all he was capable of, after what she had done. She had brought this on herself, had practically forced him into it, and this was, clearly, all she thought he could give to her. Punishment, and hard, rough, unwilling sex, and pain.

She didn’t know he could be so much more.  _ Wanted _ to be more.

Once she learned not to push him, once she learned how to bow her head and obey, she’d get to know him better. See that it didn’t have to be like this. Once she accepted him, and her role, she would get to see that their love could be so incredibly right.

He could treat her good. She just had to let him.

Until then, he reasoned as he deliberately slowed the pace of his hips, as he softened the bite of his teeth in her shoulder and eased his hold on her flesh, retracting his claws and sweeping his thumbs across her skin soothingly, he had to do this. He had to be insistent with her, and take what they both needed from her. In time, she would give in.

This wasn’t just for him, after all.

Once they got to the resort, he’d show her. Once they were in private… in a safe space… he would show her why they belonged together.

Until then… he had business with her.

With a massive effort (he truly did love the taste of her blood, so rich with her scent and the flavor of her magic and the beat of her soul), Sans withdrew his teeth from Frisk’s shoulder, looking regretfully on the broken flesh that he had reopened in his fervor, and extended his tongue to lap at the leaking, angry wound, soothing the irritation and wiping away the blood and saliva and, much to his captive’s surprise, sending an ache that wasn’t pain through her body, the mark reacting to its owner and pulsing in pleasure.

Frisk jolted at that feeling, sniffling and blinking in confusion, and Sans, observant of her reaction and her regained attention (he already knew her body so well, he congratulated himself… he could tell the difference between when her breath hitched in pain and when it shortened from pleasure), smirked softly as he repeated the run of his tongue over her injury, the shudder that ran through her pinioned body sending a wave of pleasure down his spine.

His movements into her reflected his passion and desire, his lessened ire, striving to stoke her languor into the fire that his body was already razed by, his thrusts shortening to press, invitingly, against her most sensitive, responsive spots and his hands massaging her bruised skin.

“shit…  _ shit _ , you’re so fuckin’ tight… such a good fuck… shit…” he whispered haggardly against her shoulder, the roll of his hips long and impassioned but, now, geared towards her pleasure as well, and swept the flat of his tongue over her wounded shoulder again, the magic in his saliva seeping in to numb and dull the pain he had inflicted on her.

He was rewarded, for his efforts, with a low, tremulous whine from Frisk, her hands tightening in his clothes and her core clenching around his cock unconsciously, and when he pulled back from her shoulder to nuzzle his face against her neck, pressing kisses to her flesh and breathing deep the bouquet of her rushing, aroused blood, his grin was both wide and pleased, his grip on her pinned legs and lower back tightening to press her closer to his body.

His erection twitched in divine pleasure when Frisk gasped against his cracked vertebrae, squirming against him slightly as he stimulated her, and he chuckled against her throat, extending the tip of his tongue to wipe a tear track from her skin.

“you’re a fuckin’ masterpiece… takin’ my cock so good… so wet and hot, and  _ stars _ , the noises ya make… best piece of ass i ever fuckin’ had,” he praised gruffly, bucking into her with firm, steady, but attentive vigor, mindful of the damage he had already caused to her body with his roughness, and though she knew that it was ridiculous to be flattered, especially given their current occupation, Frisk still flushed a bright red, burying her face in the furred collar of his coat and, entirely against her will, moaning softly, her abdomen clenching at his words.

He clearly felt her ardor, despite her attempts to hide it and her blush, could hear her soft pants and feel her stimulated squirming, and smirked against her throat before, insistently, reaching up to tangle his fingers in her short, loose locks and pull her back by them, forcing her back against the wall again and baring her trembling, reddened visage to his view.

His movements only increased in their drive and resolve, his need to bring her pleasure and be able to see it for himself, and Frisk, far more quickly that she wanted to (she tried to focus on the pain, on the agony he had been inflicting only moments before, but lost her hold on it when he bent his head and lapped his tongue over her beaded nipples), started to lose herself to his expertise, to the feeling of him working her body to his fancy.

Sans kept up his whispered encouragements as he buried himself in her, his uttered, if rough and crude, assurances of her beauty and his adoration for her body making her nearly lightheaded with pleased, stunned acclaim (who did he think he was trying to fool with this nonsense? What was going on, what had happened to punishing her?), and though she knew it was inevitable, though she knew that he was more than skilled enough to bring her to the edge of her unwilling pleasure, Frisk still felt the buildup of her orgasm with loath pathos, her partner pressing against her in all the right ways to incite its kindling.

He was well aware of it, too, and showed it in his self-satisfied, confident grin, pulling away from her breasts to stare into her drooping, tearful eyes; he released her hair to trace his hand down her front, along her neck, over her bouncing breasts, and down her stomach to her abdomen, placing his palm over her clenching muscles.

“not even tryin’ ta get you off, and i can feel ya gettin’ close. it’s easy as fuck ta make you cum, sweetheart… you want it? huh? you wanna cum on my fuckin’ cock?” he encouraged, arching into her to deliberately brush the head of his erection against  _ that _ spot, and, through the stars that his motion sent over her gaze, her eyelids fluttering in pleasure and her teeth biting into her lower lip to dull and muffle her groan of ecstasy, Frisk shook her head as decisively as she could and turned her face to press her cheek against the cool wall behind her, desperate to calm down.

“N-no…” she whimpered, trying her hardest to keep her voice even despite the plaintive whines pressing at her bloodied lips, but Sans wasn’t fooled, and reached up to turn her face back to him, leaning forward to bring their faces close, so close that she could feel his breath on her lips, could see the scrapes in the bone of his face and practically taste the drops of sweat dripping from his skull, and smiled at her gently, self-assured and carnal as his claws traced light along her flesh.

“sure ya do. i can feel your pussy tightenin’ around my dick… beggin’ for release. what a cock hungry little slut.  _ my _ … cock hungry slut,” he murmured fondly, his glowing socket flashing with emotion that Frisk simply did  _ not _ want to see (she closed her eyes, at his closeness, flinching back), but Sans merely snorted mellifluously through his nasal cavity, reached up to run his thumb over her cut, bruised lip, and pressed a soft, light kiss to her clenched mouth before pulling back, letting her chin go and settling his palm on the wall beside her head.

“you’ll hafta hold that thought for me, though… you haven’t earned it yet,” he told her with solemn gravity, stern punishment in his lustrous, flickering gaze, before he bent his head against her shoulder, licked again at her seeping wound (a shock of arousal shot straight to Frisk’s already clenching core, shocking a quiet yelp of pleasure from her), and bucked up into her forcefully, his former gentleness fleeing in the face of his own mounting end.

He tightened his grip on the backs of her legs, his claws digging in and scraping; his quick, hard pace bumped Frisk’s back against the wall, scratching stone along her already raw flesh; his cock, all on its own, stretched and filled her, her body still unprepared for the girth of her bony lover, even after having him seated in her for nearly fifteen minutes (was it fifteen? She couldn’t be sure… for all she knew, it had only five minutes, or maybe even a full hour).

Somehow, though, her mounting pleasure made none of it hurt. Somehow, his roughness and his hard, sharp body against hers and his insistent, needy thrusts were only making her legs shake harder, in his grip, was only making the need to clench around his plunging cock more difficult to resist (and gods help her, she was resisting; despite his own insistence that she didn’t get to cum, she sure as hell didn’t want to).

Somehow, his grunts and choked, pleasured gasps were worming their way under her skin and straight between her legs, her whimpers nearly uncontrollable as the heat and the pleasure spiked the temperature of her blood, hazing her mind and confusing her senses.

She… she wanted…

“ _ yeah _ … f-fuck… little more…” Sans groaned against her shoulder, clutching at her and dropping to his forearm against the wall so he could rut into her with as much force as he could, his hips shuddering and his thrusts growing uneven as his orgasm neared, and Frisk, squeezing his shoulders and breathing a little haggardly herself, moaned beneath her breath, behind her firmly clasped lips, and arched against him, her body instinctively locking down on his, her impending orgasm pulling her walls tight around his cock.

The pressure was too much, the tightness overwhelming. She gave in, and rocked against him needily, hopelessly, lost to her desire to cum, and threw her head back against the wall.

“S-sans…” she whimpered, as quietly as she could manage in her passion, and the skeleton monster between her legs, stunned, snapped his head up from her shoulder, staring at the girl in his arms, and almost immediately came, pushed over the edge by his dazed rapture and the throb of his soul and the sound of his name on her lips.

He choked on his coarse grunt of pleasure, thrusting shallowly into her as he spilled his magic into her clutching, pulsing core (Frisk hadn’t cum yet, was desperately grinding against his pubic arch to try to) and breathing shakily, his claws clenching against the wall and her skin.

“fuckin’ stars,  _ yes _ . take it, take it all…” he groaned, dropping his head against Frisk’s shoulder as he thrust lazily into her a few more times, drawing out his pleasure and, hazily, grinning to himself at his little mate’s frantic attempts to get off, before he, with a sigh of sated torpor, pulled himself from her body with a slick slurp, pushing his bony lips to his mark dotingly and ignoring her whines of need.

“good girl…” he crooned, licking one last time at his bite mark, before heaving himself away from the cave wall and standing shakily; he brushed the back of one hand over her mussed hair, panting with his jaw hanging open, and set Frisk down on her feet, watching her fall back against the wall on her tingling, wobbly legs.

Looking also, with conceited smugness, on the thick drip of his magic slicking down the insides of her legs as she, self-consciously, pulled her sweater down over her upper body (the only reason she hadn’t thrust a hand between her shaking legs to relieve herself was because he was watching), his sockets flaring rapturously even as he tried to dismiss his magic so he could do his jeans back up.

“damn, that’s fuckin’ hot. my cum drippin’ outta you, coverin’ your skin… and that’s just from the appetizer,” he growled lustfully, staring blatantly and licking at his drool covered fangs as he palmed his still erect cock, and Frisk, looking back at him with the color draining from her face, clutched at her body and sank as far into the wall as she could, pressing her legs together and trying to ignore the slimy, hot liquid that made her thighs stick together.

“N-no… please… let me go…” she whimpered, trembling and fearful at the thought that he intended to take  _ more _ from her already (surely he needed to rest, though his hard, persistent erection seemed to testify otherwise), and Sans, his sated pleasure putting him in a fine, giving mood, merely chuckled at her claim, his magic finally fading and allowing him to right his clothing.

He cinched his pants back together with decisive motions, his belt buckle clanking against his bony fingers (licked clean of her juices, his gaze holding hers as he had run his tongue over his arousal soaked phalanges), before straightening his t-shirt and, meaningfully, unclipping the chain from his belt loops.

He twisted its length around and between his hands, magical gaze lingering on the collar that peeked from the thick neckline of her sweater and smirk more than satisfied.

“not a chance in hell, sugartits. now c’mon... get dressed. we got places ta be,” he reminded her, nodding his head at her still lowered pants, and though the last thing she wanted to do was go anywhere with him, her knees weak and her confusion all too real and reminiscent (he had raped her,  _ again _ , but had been incredibly soft and giving at the end… why?), she still, whining in pain, bent to pull at her dirty jeans, her lower lip trembling at the pain that shot through her abdomen and her stomach heaving as her lowered position forced a gush of his cum, thick and glowing and sparking with power, from her core, dripping down the inside of her leg sickeningly.

Sans, just out of her sight, as she was preoccupied with trying to ignore her situation (namely keeping from puking), grinned all over again at the sight of his magic on her flesh, knowing that he had filled her with himself and that even now, her body was sucking him in, her veins filling with his power and his being.

Soon. Soon, she would know why.

For the moment, he contented himself with watching her pull her jeans up her dirty legs with shaking fingers, righting her sweater and finger combing her hair (she winced when she tried to do this, her scalp raw and sore from being pulled so hard), before stepping close to her again.

Frisk drew back against the cave wall behind her hesitantly at his approach, looking up at his soft smile and content gratification with tentative trepidation, but he merely brushed the back of his hand down her cheek, soft but possessive, and hooked the latch of the chain back onto her collar, cementing their dynamic once more.

“back where ya belong,” he murmured under his breath, the hand not tracing down the length of chain once again binding her to him following the motion her own hands had taken not a moment before, combing through her hair and rubbing the strands between his phalanges fondly.

He spent a long moment like that, lost in the feeling of her there and their quiet, if not peaceful, repose, before he lowered his hand to Frisk’s lower back and pressed her to his side, his other hand winding the shining length of chain around his fingers securely.

“hold on, sweetheart,” he warned her, his form already flickering and fizzling in the humid air, and Frisk, startled by his warning and the sparks of magic surrounding her, turned to dig her fingers into the front of his coat a second before he dropped out of existence entirely, stepping between the layers of reality and briefly into the Void.

Her breath was sucked from her lungs by the unfathomable dark, by the enormity of the emptiness and silence and cold of the place beyond, before the split second that they ventured through the shadow realm was ended with a pop and the scrape of rubber against cement, sound and warmth and light flooding her senses once more.

Frisk gasped for air, her head swimming and her body trembling in existential weakness, but Sans, impatient and crass as always, gave her little time to recover and dragged her forward by her chain, towards the too bright, too colorful entrance to a gaudy, overlarge set of doors that, once her vision had cleared enough to see it at all, Frisk recognized immediately.

They had teleported in front of MTT Resort, the huge building front, lit with flashing magenta and royal purple neon and a large, animated sign of Mettaton himself (he looked horrifying, multi-limbed and smiling, sharp fanged, down on the Underground through four bright, shadowed eyes), reaching all the way up to the cavern roof far above.

Around the entrance to the resort lounged call girls, led by the infamous duo of Bratty and Catty who were, apparently, already servicing a customer, if anything could be told by the grunts and cries coming from the darkness of the alleyway, and in front of the large, shiny glass doors, broad shouldered and stony faced, stood a dragon monster, clad in shining, buffed armor and scowling at everyone that passed by.

Since when had the resort needed a guard…?

Sans showed no fear or hesitation when stalking up to the tall, intimidating monster, though, glaring up at him and sneering through his sharp fangs.

“outta my way, fucktard,” he demanded, not even faltering in his approach on the doors, and the dragon, thick arms bunching with sinew and scales and leathery wings fluttering against his back, sent one cursory glare at the skeleton monster before, with slightly widened, golden eyes, stepping to the side and pushing one of the doors open for him, bowing his head and, if Frisk wasn’t mistaken, trembling slightly.

“A thousand pardons, Sans. Welcome to MTT Resort,” the monster growled humbly, not daring to make eye contact with him again but glancing curiously at Frisk as she was dragged behind him, and Frisk, clutching with one hand at the collar pulling taut around her neck and holding an arm around her aching, roiling abdomen (she didn’t like the full, wet feeling between her legs, liking even less the warmth still rushing in her veins), looked back at the other monster pleadingly, hopeful of even a smidgen of mercy.

“Please… please help me…” she whispered to him, digging her heels in to try to slow her captor down, but not only was Sans not stymied by her resistance, breaking her dragging stride with a jerk of his hand, the dragon monster didn’t even acknowledge her, merely looking down at the ground and bowing his head further as the skeletal monster before Frisk, hand wrapped unmovingly around her chain and pace steady and quick, laughed out loud at her attempt, glancing over his shoulder at her with a sneer and a dark, mocking chuckle.

“heh… nice try, dollface, but none of the freaks down here are gonna help you. if i let you outta my sight, they’d fuck you too, all chained and beaten up like ya are. they’d pass ya around like a two penny prostitute, use every hole you got to stuff their cocks in. you’re lucky i’m here ta protect you,” he informed her nastily, fiercely amused and satisfied with his intimidation, before turning back to his speedy walk across the wide, exquisitely buffed lobby of the resort, leaving the entrance, Hotland, and any hope Frisk had of being saved far behind.

As she was dragged across the huge room, Frisk took a moment to gather her bearings, looking around the lobby through her tear filled, despairing eyes; it actually didn’t look all that different from the resort that she remembered, besides the statue set in the middle of the grand fountain, still spewing water onto the black and sparkling white tiles (even Mettaton’s basic form was horrible, sporting four clawed arms and a cracked, triangular body), and the color scheme, which had an almost eye watering amount of crimsons, yellows, and dark pinks in it, saying nothing of the sheer amount of black draped dramatically everywhere.

The chandelier that she had admired so many times, and had even convinced her Sans to lift her up to with his magic once (with the stipulation that she loosen all the lightbulbs on it while she was up there), was still there, shining just as brightly as ever, and through the doors to the café, black collar popped and playing five finger fillet with an already blood flecked knife, she could see Burgerpants, his ever present cigarette hanging from between his sneering fangs.

She wasn’t sure what unsettled her more, the changes or the similarities.

The lobby was fairly empty (likely because of the guard posted at the doors), distinctly lacking the usual bevvy of monsters gathered around the elevator doors as they waited their turn to ascend to New Home, and behind the service counter, filing her nails as usual, was the receptionist for the resort, her nails painted an almost grisly red.

Sans stopped in front of the counter and slapped a casual arm on top of it, leaning forward and jabbing his free hand at the schedule the hand monster had laid in front of her.

“reservation, under the name sans. and hurry it up… me an’ the missus are anxious ta get some alone time, heh,” he snapped with an air of superiority and pride, his mood still soaring and his grin wide and hungry as he sent a wink to Frisk (he had pulled her up to the counter next to him, sending her stumbling against the edge at the sudden, jerky motion), and the monster behind the desk, jumping to attention at the presence of a customer, tapped away at her keyboard quickly before handing a key to Sans and straightening a few papers on her desk indolently, her nails darkening in embarrassment at being caught idle.

“There you are, sir, and thank you for staying with us at MTT Resort. Will you be needing any accoutrements, such as a wake up alarm, room service, extra restraints, or…” she started to offer mechanically, listing off her dutiful saying with a practiced air (r-restraints? What…?), but Sans waved his hand dismissively, cutting her off, pocketing the key, and turning away from the desk and towards the elevators.

“if i do, i’ll call,” he replied lazily, guiding Frisk along in his wake as he strolled placidly across the lobby again, and pulled her into one of the elevators the moment it opened its doors (which it did automatically, operated by cameras and motion sensors, rather than a person; Mettaton had commented on it saving not just time, but paying a bellboy as well), pressing the button for the fourth floor before pulling his phone from his pocket and opening an app that looked a lot like the storage function that had been on her own phone.

Frisk, pulling as far away from him as possible considering the size of the decadent (but rather small) elevator and the length of her chain, looked around the inside of the contraption for a moment before realizing something integral, looking over at the monster leaning against the wall of the elevator curiously.

“I… I thought you said you had a place. Why are we here?” she asked him quietly, arms crossing over her damp, mud streaked front and head nodding at the roof, indicating the resort in general, and Sans, attention held by the screen of his phone a moment longer (he hummed beneath his breath, sounding like he was pleased by what he had found), slid the device back into his coat pocket before looking up at her, the hand that had her chain wrapped around its palm tapping its fingers idly on his pant leg.

“’s not ready yet. still hafta do some repairs and shit before i can take ya there. for now, we’ll be stayin’ here. dontcha worry… i’ll have our little honeymoon home all ready for us soon,” he informed her with a shrug of his broad shoulders, the lights illuminating his sockets flicking down to look over her body in an obvious caress, and Frisk, flushing and turning her eyes downwards, turned away from him, pulling the hem of her sweater further down her legs.

Sans chuckled softly at that, his fangs glinting in the soft light of the elevator, and made to move towards her, shoving himself away from the wall with a secret, conniving intent entering his gaze, but was interrupted by the elevator dinging, the doors sliding open to admit the both of them to a richly carpeted, long hallway lined with pictures of Mettaton in various poses and sceneries, scarlet wall sconces, and a few, far spaced doors, paneled in dark wood and gold metal.

Frisk scurried out of the small enclosure the moment that she could, uncaring of the short length of the chain around her neck or the fact that he might not want her getting off first, but Sans made no move to stop her, only snickering and reaching out to smack the palm of his hand across her ass, his smirk growing at the yelp she let out in response to the sting his movement elicited.

“in a hurry to get me alone, sugar? and here i thought you didn’t like me,” he chortled gleefully, maliciously entertained by her mortification and the fleeting feeling of her posterior against his hand (he’d have to get more of  _ that _ later…), then strolled from the elevator himself, tugging on the chain in his grasp to pull Frisk towards the first door from the transportation contraption.

Sans pulled the key he had been given from his pocket, once they had both walked (one with satisfaction and anticipation, the other with reluctance and trepidation) up to its shining surface, and unlocked the door with a flourish, throwing it wide and flipping the switch on the inside of the doorway so they could both view their temporary home.

This was a different room than the one that she had stayed in, when she had done her run of the Underground; it was far larger, clearly meant to house more than one person for a great deal of time.

There was the same large bed, now draped with crimson and black laced sheets and its headboard weighted down with manacles (were those the restraints that the receptionist had been referring to? Who would possibly need  _ more _ , there were enough of them to restrain an elephant…), a bedside table on both sides, but against one wall was a large television, behind an extravagant couch, chaise lounge, and armchair, covering one corner of the room was a folding dressing cover, and crammed into yet another corner was a kitchenette, complete with microwave, minifridge, and coffee pot.

Frisk’s stomach rumbled, looking at the small kitchen (the burger from Grillby’s had been forever ago, she was  _ starving _ …), while Sans nodded approvingly at the room in general, sweeping his free hand across the visage of the room with a wide, secretive grin on his mouth.

“pretty  _ suite _ , eh? plenty of  _ room _ ta mess around in,” he joked with a pleased snicker, sounding far too happy to be making puns, and Frisk let out a snort, refusing to be amused by his turn of phrase. He looked disappointed by her lack of response, but merely shrugged it off, in far too fine a mood to be bothered, and dropped her chain altogether after tugging her the rest of the way into the room and slamming the door shut behind her.

He walked over to the bar of the kitchenette, opening one of the cabinets to search for some alcohol and jerking a thumb at one of the doors set in the wall behind him, gaze set on the small bottles of booze.

“bathroom’s through there. get yourself cleaned up,” he instructed her without care, pulling out a container of Fireball and holding it up to the light, as though inspecting it, and Frisk, still lingering near the entrance to the room, could only stare at him, suspicious and indisposed.

What did he mean? It couldn’t be what it sounded like, the last thing he had ever thought of was her comfort. Not ten minutes ago, he had been literally beating her and fucking her against a stone wall, completely against her will. And now he was offering her a  _ shower _ ?

It didn’t make sense. His apparent change of heart was alarming and entirely too suspicious… she shouldn’t trust anything he offered. He would turn on her in a second, like he always ended up doing.

But… there really wasn’t that much he could do to her through the guise of a shower… and she  _ was _ dying to get clean.

“…really?” she asked tentatively, her folded arms tightening across her chest in an attempt to keep her burgeoning hope from overtaking her, and Sans sent her an annoyed, sarcastic look over the top of the glass bottle he held, unscrewing the lid and drinking straight from it before answering.

“yeah,  _ really _ . ya look like a moldsmall, all muddy and shit. you ain’t gettin’ in bed like that,” he disparaged, waving a hand at her virtually destroyed ensemble (not only was she wet and covered in mud, she smelled, had layers of dirt and splinters ingrained into her skin, and was pretty sure there were weeds literally braided into her hair), and though she bristled at the insult, and the idea that he expected her to get into bed with him (not likely, she’d sleep on the floor first), she was still grateful that he was being, at least for the moment, a decent monster for once.

“…thank you,” she allowed, her tensed shoulders drooping and her step quick as she walked across the carpeted floor towards the slightly ajar bathroom door; the chain still attached to her collar jingled across the floor, in her haste, catching around her booted feet and slapping against the kitchen counter as she passed it, and Sans glanced at it in belated realization as she drew level to him.

He set his bottle of alcohol on the countertop and walked after Frisk, stepping on the end of the trailing chain to stop her. She choked slightly, looking back at her captor in fearful confusion as he stepped up to her, towering over her.

“What? I… I thought you said I could…” she whimpered, drawing back at his approach (he was reaching for her neck, his claws glinting in the light from the spotlights on the ceiling), but Sans scoffed at her cowering, sliding his sharp phalanges under the edge of her collar and reaching into his pants pocket for his ring of keys.

“cut yer shit. just wanted ta take your collar off,” he jeered, finding the right key and undoing the lock before unstrapping the spiked leather from around her neck, for the first time since he had put the padlock on it in the first place (it had only been a week, really, but it felt like a lifetime; her neck had never felt so light), and Frisk hesitated, not sure why he was being so kind, before backing a step away and raising a hand to her throat, tracing along the pressure marks and new scars with tentative fingers.

Sans gathered up the collar and chain in a loop around his hand, jangling the links against his bones and smirking as he watched her touch her throat; he reached out his free hand and ruffled Frisk’s hair, snickering when she pulled back and swatted at his hand.

“there ya go, sweetcheeks. we’ll put it back on ya when you’re done,” he chuckled, sending her a wink, then turned back to his bottle, waving her off without care.

Frisk vacillated for a moment, staring after him and wondering if he was going to do something else (that was two nice things, in a  _ row _ . This was extremely suspicious), then turned tail and fled into the bathroom without looking back, shutting and locking the door and pressing her back to it.

She panted in the dark, trying to slow the beat of her heart (it was ridiculous that she felt so free right now, more even than she had while she had been running; he was still out there, likely waiting for her to finish so he could visit more punishment on her), then shook her head, eyes clenching and jaw tensing.

One moment at a time. She needed to take this one moment at a time.

Her grand plans had all been for naught. Nothing had turned out like she had thought and hoped and fought for, and if she kept plotting at this rate, even given his sudden onslaught of strange benevolence, she was going to end up where she had been just a few minutes ago, under the heavy, punishing hand of her captor and master, more than likely having to take his sexual advances in payment for her disobedience.

One moment at a time, and she could get through this. She was going to take a shower, her first since the night of her kidnapping from her own world by the still unknown perpetrator, and then she was going to go back out into the room.

What happened after that would have to wait.

Settled on her plan of action, and doing her best to ignore the aches and pains that washed over her (she was going to be covered in even more bruises than she had been from the night before…), Frisk flipped the bathroom light on, kicked off her mud crusted boots, and set to undressing, taking every measure possible to avoid looking in the enormous, extravagantly decorated mirror over the double sinks as she did so.

She didn’t bother to fold her torn, filthy clothes, instead tossing them into a pile behind the bathroom door and leaving their care to future Frisk (one moment at a time…), and stepped into the enormous bathtub, sliding the shower curtain closed modestly before looking, hands on bare hips and attention forcedly away from the liquid trickling down the insides of her thighs, at the seventeen knobs and three faucets set in the wall of the shower.

What the…?

Fiddling with the knobs for a while finally led her to discovering how the shower worked (several knobs dispensed soaps, lotions, and bubble bath, two seemed to send out streams of perfumed steam, and another five, and one of the faucets, were dedicated to releasing a flow of different colored glitters), and before long she was soaking in a soft, decadent rain of hot, relaxing water, the pain of the liquid biting into her injuries a far off consideration compared to the soothing beat of the shower on her head and shoulders.

She must have been in that shower for over half an hour, scrubbing her hair six times and washing the dirt and blood and… unspeakable things… from her skin and relaxing, blissfully, in the comfort of being away from Sans’ forever staring sockets and the emptiness of her head and the cleanliness of her beaten, abused body.

She even dared to look at herself in the fogged mirror that, for some reason, had been inlaid as one of the walls of the shower, glancing wearily at the bite mark in her shoulder (it wasn’t as bad as it had looked while bloody, though it was large and deep and would  _ definitely _ scar… bastard…) and the scratches trailing over her hips and legs before finger combing her hair and finally, regretfully, shutting the shower off to step out and towel off.

Maybe Sans would continue to have mercy on her and would feed her and let her sleep before assaulting her again, or whatever it was that he was planning…

Her hope of rest drained away the moment that she pulled the shower curtain out of the way, though… the bathroom had been changed, while she had been occupied, namely in the fashion of it now being  _ completely bare _ .

Not only were the towels missing, down to the smallest washcloth, but her clothes were as well, only a few flecks of mud and, coiled on the counter of the sink, her collar and chain left behind.

Frisk wanted to cry, hugging her body and dropping her head into her bare chest in misery, before she pulled herself across the floor, dripping water and flushing in shame, to pick up her collar and, obediently, like the dog she apparently was, strapping it back around her neck, clicking the padlock into place.

She looked at it, through the mirror, at how the chain and leather shone against her bare flesh and, somehow, accentuated her skin tone (had he done that on purpose? He didn’t seem much for fashion…), before reluctantly shuffling to the door, feet slapping wetly against the sopping tiles, and pulling the still locked door open (damn him and his teleporting…) a few inches, attempting to preserve her vanity despite knowing how futile it was.

And there he was, laying back against the headboard of the bed and waiting for her like a tool, his jacket and shirt shed and hanging over the edge of the folding dressing screen (she hadn’t seen his bare ribcage before, only caught glimpses last night while he had had her on her back; his bones were so thick, it was like they formed muscle), his hands behind his head and a shit eating, smug grin on his face as he watched her dally in the shadows of the door she knew she was going to have to leave the cover of all too soon.

Still, she waited. Still, she hoped, and still, she forced herself to ask the stupid question she already knew the answer to.

“S-sans… where are the towels? And my clothes?” she probed with a tremor to her voice, not shivering from cold (the room was actually very temperate, considering the fact that the resort sat on the edge of Hotland) but still trembling, and Sans, his smirk only growing, shook his head slowly, chuckling low in his hollow chest.

“ya won’t be needin’ ‘em while we’re here. plenty warm, and what’s the point, really? you won’t be leavin’ the room… or the bed. now get your sexy ass out here,” he commanded in a soft murmur, raising a claw from behind his head to beckon her closer, but Frisk didn’t move, only turning redder and dropping her gaze to her now shadow covered toes, chewing on her split bottom lip.

“But… but…” she excused, clutching the doorknob and trying to salvage some scrap of determination for herself,  _ something _ to help her rally from this constant, shameful cowering (where was her spine? It was like he had ripped it out of her, with his repeated violations, making her into a total weakling), but Sans was having none of her vacillations, his expression hardening and his fangs glinting as his smile tightened warningly.

“i  _ said _ , move it.  **_now_ ** ,” he growled, pointing his beckoning finger at the ground firmly, and Frisk, flinching at the warning in his barked order, hesitated only a moment longer before pulling the door open and slouching into the room, folding one arm over her bared breasts and clutching at the dragging chain of her collar with the other, eyes on the ground (the raised areas of the carpet were tiny wheeled, triangular Mettatons… she had almost forgotten how fond of himself he was…) and head bowed as she presented herself to her “mate”.

And he was not disappointed, dragging his gaze down her still wet body and letting out a haggard, wanting groan as he did, his magic rearing to manifest his tongue, which flicked past his teeth to trace his mouth hungrily, and to send a glow of arousal to tent the crotch of his jeans, one of his hands lowering to palm his cock as he practically ravaged her with his gaze.

A rumbling growl of desire thundered through his chest, breath leaving him in a pant of stirred longing.

“ _ damn _ , you’re fine. such a sweet, hot little body… why don’t ya walk it over here, hmm?” he suggested with a seductive croon to his deep, resounding voice, gaze lingering on the bite mark on her shoulder, and Frisk, reluctant and nervous (how was he aroused again so quickly? It wasn’t fair… she didn’t want him again, especially not so soon… she hadn’t even recovered from the first time, much less the second), shuffled a step closer, lowering her head bashfully.

Sans wasn’t satisfied with her slow progress or her dawdling, though, quickly losing his patience with her, and tsked his tongue in annoyance, a stream of red magic rising from the bone of his extended hand and his finger once again curling to motion her closer.

Frisk’s soul jerked in her chest, responding to his magic immediately and shocking a yelp from her, and even though she tried to resist, even though she tried to dig her heels in, pull back,  _ anything _ , he still dragged her across the room by his hold on her soul, his now more than symbolic beckoning sending her practically running to his side and sprawling, awkward and shameful, across his lap when she reached the bedside, her face nearly pressing against the bulge in his pants.

He snickered at that, shaking the mist of red, roiling magic away from his hand before reaching down to dig his claws into her hair and thrusting his hips upwards, rubbing his erection, through the rough material of his jeans, against her lips.

“’s more like it…” he practically cackled, grunting at the friction of her pressed against him… but rather than doing what she feared, rather than undoing his zipper and forcing his cock into her mouth, he instead released his hold on her head entirely, moving his hands to her arms to gently but firmly pull her upright and onto the bed at his side.

One hand moved to her thigh, following his assistance, tugging at it insistently.

“but not what i’m goin’ for right now. scoot up. i got somethin’ i wanna show you,” he instructed, patting his lap with his opposite hand and rubbing her thigh soothingly (or at least she assumed it was meant to be soothing; all his touch was doing was making her shudder, the rasp of his bone on her bare flesh making heat gather in her blood quicker than she would ever want), and though she didn’t want to, though she wanted anything  _ but _ being this close to him, she still, with shaking legs, shifted herself so she was straddling his lap, trying to keep her weight on her knees so she wouldn’t come in contact with the hardness of his groin and still attempting to hide her breasts with her arms.

Sans watched her mount him with satisfied pleasure, sockets lidding and hands helping her up very intimately, and as soon as she was settled, looking at anything but him and trying not to shift too much, so she wouldn’t brush against his erection (he snickered to himself at how she was trying to keep from pushing her core against it, all too aware of the inevitability of their contact in the near future), he sat up himself, pushing their chests together and dragging his nasal cavity along her neck, bared by her averted gaze.

He huffed in approval, his mouth watering at her scent, so clean and still so rife with his own smell; one hand moved across her body to encircle the wrist obscuring her from his sight, dragging it away from her full breasts so he could press his bare ribs to her skin, so he could feel the beat of her soul against his bones.

“ya smell so good, precious… i could just eatcha up…” he murmured, his face dropping to her shoulder and his jaw opening to allow his tongue to slick, wet and tantalizing, over his cleaned, bared mark (a jolt of pleasure ran through Frisk’s body, her knees nearly failing her), and Frisk, biting at her lip again and whimpering at his attentions, leaned back as much as his restraining hands allowed, her chain clinking and her breath escaping through her nose in ragged pants of anxiety.

No… no, not so soon…

“Sans… p-please… I…” she excused, her hands limp at her sides and her bare bravery faltering, but whatever Sans had been planning, his free hand climbing the length of her thigh towards her backside and his teeth scraping her already broken flesh, was interrupted by a knock at the door, a voice even more tremulous than her own coming through the wood from the other side.

“Uhh… umm… room service…” called the person from beyond the door, clearly aware of who they were going to be serving if the anxiety and plain, bare terror in their voice testified to anything, and Sans, a flash of annoyance crossing his skeletal face, let out a sigh and shifted himself under Frisk, moving her further onto the bed and off of his lap so he could stand, stretch (she caught herself staring, when he did, his bones flexing and moving in ways she had never seen her Sans’ do), and shuffle across the floor towards the door, sending his little human a lambent, idle look and a lazy grin.

“ahh… forgot ‘bout that. took ‘em long enough, eh? sit tight, sugar, i’ll be back,” he sighed, waving a hand over his bare shoulder, and slumped his way to the door so he could retrieve, Frisk was suddenly hoping, food for them.

She didn’t know what she had expected, when he finally reached the door to open it, sitting naked as the day she had been born in the middle of the giant bed, but it hadn’t been him ripping the door all the way open and revealing not just Burgerpants, his knees knocking together despite his dark, terrifying, pierced appearance, to her, but her bare body to the cat monster as well, their eyes locking over Sans’ shoulder and his piercing golden gaze flicking down to her reclining, naked body before whipping away.

Frisk couldn’t gather the sheets around her body fast enough, turning the reddest she ever had in her life and covering her face with her hands in mortification, and Burgerpants, his orange fur darkening to a burnt umber, pulled a cart into view in the hallway, waving his hand over several steaming plates and shaking so badly the glasses on the trays rattled.

“S-sir, your… your requested m-meal…” he proffered, looking down at his sneakers and clearly trying to edge away while he could, and Sans, one shoulder propping against the doorframe and his hands sliding into his jean pockets, sent the cat monster a flat, suspicious glower, his sockets narrowing and his head turning so he could glance back at Frisk for a moment.

When he turned back to the cowering service worker, it was with a glint of danger in his gaze, his magic sparking and his fangs glinting in the soft lights of the hallway.

“whatsa matter? somethin’ distractin’ you? cat got your tongue?” he hissed in a falsely friendly, incredibly wrathful mutter, one of the bulbs in the sconces next to the door flickering and popping, and Burgerpants’ ears dropped flat against his head, shrinking back from the glowering skeleton monster with his paws clenching in front of him.

“N-no Sa… sir… n-nothing…” he whimpered, his tail swishing around behind him in agitation, and Sans, sneering and punitive, bared his teeth in a fierce, protective growl, his broad shoulders tensing and his magic flaring.

“that’s what i fuckin’ thought. and next time, clothes or not, ya better not so much as glance at her. i’ll let it go this time, cuz i know how hard it is ta keep from droolin’ over her. but she’s  _ mine _ , every inch of her, and i’ll rip your eyes out and make ya eat ‘em if it happens again. got it, asswipe?” he snarled, tearing a hand from his pants pocket to point a threatening, clawed finger at the monster cringing in front of him, and Burgerpants nodded quickly, nearly sobbing in relief at being spared.

“Crystal c-clear, sir,” he assured Sans, bowing his head repeatedly and backpedaling like the wind, nearly bumping into the wall across the hallway in his haste, and Sans barked out a harsh, humorless laugh, grasping the handle of the cart to drag it into the room.

“good. now get the fuck outta here. as you can see, i got a lady waitin’ on me,” he chuckled, jerking his head down the hallway as he walked back into the room, and it was almost as though Burgerpants had gained the ability to teleport, he was gone so quickly, sprinting down the hallway as rapidly as he was able to.

Snickering to himself, obviously pleased and content with his intimidation, Sans kicked the door closed behind himself, flicking a hand at it to lock it with a flicker of magic, and pushed the cart of steaming, glittery burgers and fries and starfaits towards the end of the bed, grabbing a burger for himself and sitting on the edge of the bed to dig into it.

Frisk looked hungrily at the tray, sniffing hopefully and clutching at the blankets she had wrapped around herself, but dared not move towards the food without permission. Things were going far too well, he was being too nice (well, besides him disallowing her wearing clothes)… there had to be a catch somewhere.

But it wasn’t making itself evident, Sans waving her towards the tray with a careless hand and a sparkle in his sockets, munching on the sequin studded burger with relish and crossing one leg across the other, adjusting his still present erection as he did so (Frisk looked away from the motion, not wanting to be reminded of his arousal and the way his gaze lingered on her still bare skin, no amount of crimson sheets enough to hide her nakedness).

“go on… don’t just stare at it, dig in,” he encouraged around a mouthful of food, uncaring of manners or tact as usual, but Frisk, too hungry to even think of the crumbs he had sprayed with his bad manners, scooted across the bed to the foot so she could grab up a container of fries, clutching the sheets to her chest with one hand as she stuffed her mouth with the other, ignoring Sans’ amused staring as she did.

She tore her way through two burgers, another pack of fries, and three starfaits before she slowed, wiping daintily and abashedly at her mouth with a napkin; she looked down at her hands, fiddling with the blanket and flushing bright red when she still felt Sans’ gaze on her.

The skeleton monster, finishing up his own large meal by wiping his hands on his pants, let out a soft, breathy laugh at her blushing, scooting further onto the bed and reaching out to run his claws through Frisk’s poofy, loose hair fondly.

“don’t be embarrassed… i like a girl with a little appetite on her. plus, you’re all healed up now… we can get back ta what we were doin’ before shitface interrupted with his staring,” he reminded her with ease and humor in his tone, tracing his fingertips around her cheekbone, now unmarked by the bruises of his rough handling, to wipe a streak of grease from the corner of her lips.

Frisk could only stare back at him, surprised into inaction by his candor.

Given his jealous tendencies towards her Sans, Frisk had expected his voice to be harder, colder, and more violent when speaking of the monster that seen her naked body, saying nothing of his actions; not only had he only warned Burgerpants away, he hadn’t hurt him in the least, and was making no move to hurt her either, where he had been adamant in punishing her for touching, feeling things for, and being intimate with someone else besides him just last night.

But here he was, smirking at her softly and touching her skin lightly, like she was made of glass, and sounded almost like the occurrence of another male monster seeing her naked was some sort of amusing happenstance.

Wait.

“You… you did that to Burgerpants on purpose,” she accused, realization dawning on her mind as well as her face, and Sans, his smirk turning sly, laughed at his own secret joke before scooting back across the bed to prop his back against the headboard again.

“heh… ya caught me. had a purpose, though, wasn’t just showin’ ya off. he’ll tell the rest of the staff, and now none of the scum that works here will so much as think about ya, much less come near you while i’m gone,” he preened, incredibly proud of his clearly successful plotting, then grinned at Frisk wantonly, his gaze dragging down her skin where the sheet didn’t cover her.

“plus… much as i fuckin’  _ despise _ havin’ his filthy eyes on you… i like how red ya turned,” he purred, licking the tip of a sharpened canine, and Frisk, completely against her will, darkened another shade, turning her face away to hide in her hair and clutch the sheet around her body, shamed and all too aware of her state.

Sans wasn’t dissuaded by her reticence, reaching out to take one of her thin wrists in his hand and pull her to his side with a look of artful seduction on his skeletal face. Despite her struggles, she slid across the slick, soft sheets easily, and didn’t have the chance to try to scoot away from him again; he curled his phalanges around her chain, once it was in reach, and wrapped it around his fist.

His other hand made short work of the cover she had clothed herself in, tearing the sheet from her body and baring her to his sight once more. She cried out in alarm and shame, fighting weakly against the pull of his hand on her chain, but made no leeway, and was thus subject to the path his palm took as it wended up her thigh, over her hip, and up her abdomen, her face turning progressively redder the more he touched her.

Sans was inordinately pleased by his finding, rubbing a thumb over her slightly distended ribs as his hand moved higher, his gaze flickering over her bare body with pride, pleasure, and intense inspection.

“such a shy little thing…bet you’d blush all the way ta your toes if i fucked ya in fronta someone,” he mused, hand gliding up to cup one of her breasts softly and gaze rising to stare into her eyes meaningfully, daring and pleased, and Frisk, incapable of turning any redder, hid her face in her hands, shaking her head and trying to ignore his groping, invasive hand on her breast.

“N-no… please, no…” she begged, trembling and biting back a shock of pleasure when his thumb stroked over her nipple, but Sans only scoffed at her pleading, squeezing her breast and dragging her closer so he could nuzzle his face into the hollow of her throat, licking over her clavicle and humming in his amused, aroused fervor.

“oh calm your fuckin’ tits, i ain’t gonna. nobody gets to see ya like that but me. this tight, sweet, sexy little body is mine…” he assured her, dropping his hand so he could run his claws down her side to rest on her hip again indicatively, then shook his head at himself in chagrin, sighing and pulling back.

“but we were doin’ somethin’. climb back up, sweetheart… we got business,” he urged her, jerking on her chain and pulling on her hip softly, and Frisk, flushed and quivering and cautious, glanced at him distrustfully, sure that this was where everything was going to go badly.

He’d been far too forgiving, far too even tempered. She didn’t trust it, not in the least.

Sans just rolled his magical gaze in his sockets, though, in response to her idleness, pulling on her again with a surprising amount of patience.

“don’t gimme that look, i ain’t gonna hurtcha. just get up here,” he huffed in gruff exasperation, grumbling under his breath, and Frisk, slowly and carefully, shifted herself so she was kneeling over his pelvis once more, unsure of what to do with her hands (it seemed natural to grasp onto his lower ribs, in this position, but she didn’t want to touch him like that, and so settled with setting her hands on her shivering thighs, spread wide around the monster’s thick hipbones and barely keeping her above his persistent arousal.

Sans inspected her position clinically, shifting her chain in his grasp and pushing her down onto his lap fully (his hard cock pressed into her folds through his pants, making a quickly stifled whimper rise to her lips), before he nodded and looked back up at her, taking a deep, calming breath.

“there ya go, sugar. oh, and i wouldn’t struggle much, if i were you…” he warned her, squeezing her hip one last time, then raised his hand, his magic rising once more to shroud his fingers, to the center of her chest, and without preamble, without warning, and without hesitation pulled her soul straight out of her body, the pulsing red heart exposed to the air for the first time in years, hovering an inch in front of her bared breasts.

“could get dangerous to your health if ya do,” he cautioned, once it was done, and then lowered his hand from the center of her being, the cage of her magic, and stared, his sockets wide and his face slack and his breath gone completely.

He stayed like that for an astoundingly long time, only capable of looking at the floating, beating soul with awed, possessive sockets; Frisk couldn’t help looking either, when she wasn’t watching him or his reactions (it looked like, for the first time since she’d met him, he was literally lost for words), watching her bound, contained magic with fondness and sacred memory.

Her Sans had only pulled her soul out to look at once, a day she could hardly forget… he had literally wept, seeing it before him, cupping his hands around it and promising it, in a low, reverent voice, that he would never harm it or her (it had sounded like he was going to finish his promise with an ‘again”, which was odd), and had all but worshiped it.

This Sans, lying under her and looking up at her spinning, glowing soul, wore much the same expression he had that day, looking like he was choking back tears and as though he was literally blown away by emotion.

He reached out a hesitant hand, his palm an inch under the floating magical apparition, blinking rapidly while a smile, a real, soft, heartfelt smile, crept across his face, goofy and happy and blissful.

“…gorgeous. just fuckin’…  _ gorgeous _ . never seen anythin’ more beautiful than your soul, sugar…” he uttered reverently, taking, at last, a deep, shuddering breath through his slack jaw, and glanced back up at her for a moment, his emotions plain on his face (he looked… content. Peaceful. …he looked like her Sans did, when he looked at her tenderly and curled her hair around an errant finger and bent close to kiss her), before looking back at her soul, clearing his emotion from his voice and swirling his extended fingers through the mist of sparkling red fog that the cartoonish red heart was swirling through.

“see this? i know you’ve been arguin’ with yourself, ‘bout if you’re supposed ta be mine or not. this’s all the proof ya need,” he commented softly, making benign shapes in the shifting cloud, and Frisk, far more curious than she was hesitant, leaned forward to look more closely at the mist.

It was like a fine powder made liquid, or a liquid frozen and then shattered into infinitesimal shards, moving in whorls and waves and gentle, rolling caresses around her soul. Sometimes, a crest of the mist, a slightly darker red than her soul, would break against the manifestation of her being, and the heart would pulse, the mist left clinging to it sinking in and disappearing.

She felt warmer, whenever that happened, like she had just taken a sip of her Sans’ thirty year old scotch; an odd sense of rightness also washed over her mind, reassuring her and feeding a feeling of belonging and completion to her.

It was almost…  _ beautiful _ , watching the mist interact with her soul…

Unable to help herself, Frisk raised a hand from her leg to trace through the mist as well, and was surprised when a strand of it clung to her skin, pulsing gently, as though in welcome, before parting and wafting back to her soul to rejoin the rolling cloud.

Her mark, on her shoulder, throbbed with pleasure at the contact, and lost to a strange, overwhelming sense of right and happiness, despite knowing,  _ knowing _ , that something was wrong, Frisk raised her gaze back to Sans’ face, his sockets still locked, unmoving and unshakable and intense, on her soul.

“What is it?” she whispered, feeling like speaking at full volume would be sacrilege, in light of what was happening between the two of them, and Sans, letting out a shaky, overwhelmed breath, looked up at her, his sockets sparkling with hope and potential and desperate, optimistic desire.

“my magic. your soul is absorbin’ it, like a gorgeous little sponge. if we weren’t compatible, it would reject my magic, or my magic would harm ya. but here it is, suckin’ it in like a cum guzzlin’ whore… an exquisite,  _ beautiful _ little whore, starvin’ for me…” he murmured back, glancing back at her soul with a bright, what she hesitated to call loving smile lifting his sharp fangs into animated zeal.

“and the more i fuck you… the more of my magic your soul takes in, and the more it gets used ta me… the closer we’ll be to bondin’ our souls. the closer you’ll be ta bein’ mine for the rest of your life,” he whispered passionately, as though talking straight to her soul, and Frisk, the fullness of what was happening fully dawning on her, pulled back immediately, making a grab for her soul but, to her shock and disappointment, feeling her hand pass straight through it without purchase.

She couldn’t let him do this to her… she belonged to her Sans, she wanted this with  _ him… _ and he was stealing that choice from her entirely, forcing his magic into her soul so he could bind her to him inescapably.

She couldn’t let him. She had to stop this, somehow keep him from getting any more magic into her veins…

“No… no, you can’t do this, I’m not yours! I don’t… mmph!” she started to protest, wriggling in his lap and straining against her chain and feeling wet, panicked tears trailing down her cheeks, but Sans, pulled from his calm contemplation of their future and her soul and how right and good he felt, for the first time in so long, frowned up at his tiny mate irritably, flashing a hand up to cover her mouth before she could finish what she was going to say.

An ache flared in his chest, from her cutting words and their ill effects on his own soul… and then had a flash of inspiration, his jaw clenching and his gaze snapping with impassioned, determined fire.

“ _ you  _ **_are_ ** _ mine _ . …wanna see why?” he growled insistently, excited to have even more concrete proof of their connection, and didn’t wait even a moment longer, not even pretending to want an answer from her; he released her mouth, clapped his free hand to his sternum, and pulled.

His soul emerged from his chest, the upside down, cracked white heart fluttering in his palm… before jerking suddenly, desperately forward, trying to bridge the gap between it and Frisk’s soul. Frisk’s, before her, was making much the same movements, shaking and pulling towards the other soul, and Frisk could do nothing but stare, overtaken by an indescribable, desperate longing.

In the back of her mind, she wondered why Sans’ soul was so cracked, what had happened and if he was okay (did it have something to do with the cracks in his skull?), but the forefront of her attentions were focused entirely on the abrupt, utterly frantic desire she suddenly had to crawl closer to Sans… to press her chest to his…

To let the straining, crackling souls meet.

Sans looked to be in much the same state, beads of sweat building on his skull and his expression strained as he forcedly kept himself pressed back against the headboard, though he grinned maniacally, victoriously, at the sight of her soul literally leaping to join with his.

“see? lookit ‘em. can barely stand ta be apart, even with how little they know each other. ‘course, it’d kill us both if they tried ta bond now, but still. one day…” he panted, nodding needlessly to the magical bond trying to form between them, then waved his hand, dismissing his soul back into the safety of his care but, for some reason, keeping Frisk’s out.

He took a moment to regain his breath, winded from the raw experience of denying his soul it’s most fervent desire (and from seeing that the cracks in it had, for some reason, healed a little, an oddity that he would need to think on later), before he adjusted his position on the bed, glanced once more up at Frisk’s teary, confused,  _ betrayed _ gaze, and returned his sockets to her soul, salivating at what was coming next.

He had been waiting for this for what seemed like forever.

“one day, we’ll be one. body and soul... just like we’re meant ta be,” he promised her fervently, not a single doubt in his mind as to the veracity of his claim, and reached out to make full contact with her soul, the tip of one of his claws stroking along its glossy, shining edge slowly and tenderly.

The moment his phalange came in contact with her soul, Frisk’s whole body jerked, her back shooting ramrod straight and her eyes opening wide. A yelp of surprised, incredible pleasure left her lips, shocking her even further, and in her abdomen, despite the beating it had taken from him over the past twenty-four hours, her core clenched in wet, desperate desire, answering the touch of her mate with readiness and passion.

Sans didn’t laugh at her outcry, only answered her with a muted, rumbling growl of approval and want, and arched into her body, his hand rising to make another pass over her soul, this time with two fingers.

She nearly lost her vision with pleasure at the contact, the room so bright in her fervor and lust that she had to close her eyes entirely; she couldn’t help the way her hips moved against him in her instinctual yearning, bucking down against the hot, hard, throbbing bulge in his pants, couldn’t stop her hands as she bent to grasp helplessly at his thick ribs.

Couldn’t keep from moaning rampantly, as he stroked her soul again, nearly crying in her mixed emotions of supreme confusion and rife need.

“Ahhh… wh-what… what is happening… ahhhh… S-s…” she whimpered, twitching when the monster beneath her, taking full advantage of the motions of her hips to plant his feet on the mattress and thrust up into her, rubbed his fingertips into her soul, making her core clench in waves of intense, overwhelming pleasure, but Sans, preoccupied with her motions and the undulating magic in his hands, paid no attention to her questioning, licking enthusiastically at his fangs.

He stroked her soul again, pressing deeper this time, and moaned himself, loud and appreciative, when Frisk cried out rapturously, grinding down on him and rubbing her palms over his ribs.

“fuck, it’s sensitive… dyin’ for my touch… so eager ta be with me it’s  _ shiverin’ _ . majestic little fuck… and all  **mine** …” he growled covetously, staring at the soul in silence for a moment… before leaning forward and licking it directly.

The scream of pleasure she let out at that, and the way she bucked against him desperately, nearly made him cum right there, his cock throbbing against her torturously hot folds through his jeans and his free hand abandoning her chain to jump to one of her jolting, bouncing breasts, squeezing her flesh urgently as he ran his tongue over her soul again.

Frisk was, meanwhile, losing her mind, the conflicting urges to both run and, frankly, sink herself onto the dick she could feel pressing against her entrance tearing her already tired and stretched too thin brain apart.

She couldn’t take much more of this… it was too much, it felt too good… she…

She wanted… but she couldn’t… she  _ couldn’t _ …

“Haahhh! Ahhhh… no… no, stop, I don’t… it’s…” she tried to protest, trying to remind herself of her resistance even as she felt herself thrusting back into the skeleton monster’s motions, her now soaking, swollen folds slicking along the wetted fabric of his pants, and Sans, snickering, answered her with another lick to her soul, his grasping hands both lowering to her hips to guide her in her blind, inexperienced rutting, evening her thrusts and arching up into her needily.

“and make ya stop movin’ like that? no fuckin’ way,” he derided, her excitement making him more keen than he ever had been in his life to get his cock back into her body, and Frisk, crying out with every breath she took now, grasped blindly for his shoulders to steady herself, her soul throbbing and her mark pulsing with desire and her body focused on one thing and one thing  _ only _ … the one thing she had just promised herself she couldn’t do.

Getting more of his magic.

“I… I-I… I can’t… why… so… so hot…” she whined in her helpless confusion, her desperate need; she couldn’t stop the rotation of her hips, the panting of her breath or the desire she was being swept away by. Her blood was an inferno, her heart a beating drum, and her core, clutching and needy and ready, so ready for him, pressing against his erection single mindedly.

Sans was the last person that was going to help her make sense of what she was feeling, though, and only pressed against her harder, rolling his tongue against her soul and pulling her closer to his body possessively and near to losing his own mind in his need.

Stars, how he had dreamed of her wanting him like this…

“mmm… that’s it, babe. fuck yourself on me…” he muttered against her soul, the word out of his mouth before he even realized what he had said, and Frisk, shocked and confused and astounded (that… that was what her Sans called her… that was  _ his _ name for her… babe…), stared at Sans a moment longer, her vision blurring and her memory failing her once more, before falling against him entirely and wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing his cheekbones with tears dripping down her cheeks.

“Sans…  _ Sans _ … gods, Sans,  _ please _ …”

Her hips sped into a new frenzy, her mind twisting and throwing a shade of false reality over her vision (it was him… he was really in there, lost to the hard, cold years and just waiting for her… she knew it, she knew it, it  _ had _ to be…), and Sans, shocked himself at her sudden motion and her pleas of his name and the loss of access to her soul, only idled for a moment before nuzzling his face into her shoulder fondly, affection and desire shoving aside his protesting morals.

It didn’t matter. She was here, with him. They were different monsters, she  _ knew _ that. She was just… overwrought.

This wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t wrong, to have his future bride, his future mate, again.

“’m here, sexy. c’mon, sit up… lemme help ya…” he crooned against her ear, hands shifting on her hips to pull her up so he could reach to undo his zipper, and Frisk, panting and whining and kissing desperately along his jawline, did as she was bidden shakily, lifting herself off of him and waiting, impatiently, while he tugged his pants open for her, pulling his thick, already dripping cock from within.

He guided her down onto him, her folds parting around the head of his erection in what was becoming an incredibly familiar draw of magic to flesh; she was desperate by then, though, mindless in her desire and heated fervor, and tried to shove herself down onto his thickness all at once, yelping when she found the stretch far too painful.

Sans, thankfully, still had a good grip on her, and stopped her from taking him completely, holding her in place and arching up to press bony, soothing kisses to her taut, pained face, chuckling dotingly when she whimpered at him and thrust against his partial insertion.

“careful, honey… little at a time at first, yeah?” he reprimanded softly, though that was the last thing he wanted at the moment (he wanted to flip them over, push her sexy little legs as far apart as they could go, and fuck her so full of his cum that she could taste it), and slowly, agonizingly, let her lower herself onto him the rest of the way, groaning in utter, bone shaking pleasure at the sluggish drag of her tight, wet core around his length.

Frisk complained the entire time, wriggling in his hold and trying incredibly hard to stimulate herself on her bony lover, but Sans kept a firm grip on her, muttering reassurances to her every so often and reminding her that she was going to hurt herself if she wasn’t cautious.

Finally, at long last, he settled her against his pelvis again, his cock buried in her so deep he could practically feel the pulse of her soul through her body, his head falling back against the headboard and his legs shifting so she had a better position to ride him in, and Frisk, a mess of need and hot, heavy lust and desperate instinct, immediately tried to push herself up, but Sans, laughing breathlessly at her excitement, held her still.

Frisk whined for the thousandth time, beating a fist against his shoulder and straining against his hands on her hips.

“Please… please, I  _ need _ you…” she begged, lost in the haze of her desire and the fullness of her core, caught up in the singing of her soul and the thrill in her blood, and Sans, pulling his head up to look at her with sweat dripping down his skull, let out a husky, affectionate chuckle, reaching a hand out to lace into her hair.

“i know ya do, sugar, but you gotta take it slow. rock your hips,” he instructed, guiding her with one hand while the other, tangled in her poufy locks, pulled her face down to his to press their lips, flesh to bone, together, and though she disagreed with the pace, she eagerly obeyed his prompting motions, shifting her hips backwards and forwards while kissing greedily at his mouth, letting out tiny gasps and moans as she did.

Her delight and eagerness pleased Sans, the blackness of his former poor mood that day fleeing him entirely as he finally got to make love to his mate, and the two of them, human and monster, lost themselves to the soul deep feeling of the sex they had owed each other from the beginning, soft cries of passion and pleasure filling the room as quickly as the creaking of the bed.

He found out what it felt like for her to suck his tongue, at long last, and nearly ended their fun early by almost orgasming the moment her felt her do so; they switched positions, not long after that (her legs tired very quickly, after all her running that day), Sans rolling his diminutive lover onto her back so he could, in his growing eagerness, take her how he truly wanted, her legs wrapping around his thrusting hips and her fingernails digging into his bones and her wails and keens of pleasure only spurring him on further.

He whispered sweet nothings to her as he took her, firm but steady and driving her even further out of her mind with pleasure than he ever had before.

“yes… oh,  _ stars _ , yes… i fuckin’ love your pussy,  _ shit _ …”

“scream for me, darlin’… don’t be shy, let ‘em all hear us…”

“ain’t it good, sweetheart? ain’t it what ya hoped it’d be?”

“this…  _ this _ is what we could be, baby… it could be so right, so fuckin’ beautiful… ya just hafta let me in…”

“fuck yes. _fuck_ yes. _oh_ **_fuck_** , you’re so damn good… so sweet, so fuckin’ _right_ …”

She tried to answer him, tried to return his fire and hapless desire, but couldn’t speak, could only moan and clutch him and try, so very hard, to match his pace by arching up into him and kissing him sloppily and responding to the pounding beat of her soul, its desire for him unequaled by anything she had ever felt.

Surely, if her soul wanted him… it had to be right. Surely, it knew better than her.

And so she clutched at him, and Sans clutched at her in return, one arm laid beside her head on the rumpled sheets and the other clenched on her posterior, pressing their hips as close as humanly possible together. He kissed her hungrily, as he savaged her body, his pace speeding and his cock throbbing within her as his end neared.

He swallowed her every gasp and moan, just as she swallowed his, but separated from her lips, a string of red tinted drool stretching between their tongues, as his breathing hitched and his thrusts grew shorter, his bones numbing and his magic surging; he wanted to hear her take his passion, wanted her groans to reverberate through the whole resort, and instead sank his face into her shoulder as he gave one last, hard thrust, kissing and licking his mating mark as he filled her.

“hnnn…  _ frisk _ … yeah, take it all… take me in, down to your  _ soul _ ,  **_fuck_ ** …” he gasped against her, lightheaded and out of breath and lost to the feeling of her own impending orgasm milking his seed from him, her core clutching him closer and trying desperately to hold onto his magic (he grinned, open mouthed, at her body’s response, self-satisfied and voracious), before he pulled himself from her body entirely, kneeling over her and pushing soft, adoring kisses to her twitching, desperate face.

The moment he removed his cock from her body she delved a hand between her legs, rubbing at her clit and clutching her breasts in a frantic plea to join him in the apex of his pleasure.

“Sans… oh, Sans,  _ please _ … I’m… I’m so…” she whined, arching off the bed and, deliciously, using a drooling string of his magic as lubricant to attempt to get off, but while he had never seen anything as hot as her teetering on the edge of climax before, not in his many, many years (stars damn him to the void, she was so  _ sexy _ …), he still tutted and snatched her hands away from her body, his phalanges forming manacles around her wrists as she twisted and whimpered and rubbed her thighs together under him.

“shh… ya don’t get ta cum yet, not ‘til you’re sorry for runnin’ from me, but we’ll get there…” he assured her as she slowly stopped fighting, her weary, watery eyes fluttering and her abdomen heaving and her chest, decorated with hickeys and trails of drying saliva, glowing slightly as her soul calmed, his magic already making its way to it.

Once she had stopped struggling against him, only occasionally twitching in pent up need, he crawled off of her, zipped up his pants, and rearranged her in the bed, scooting her up to one of the twenty-two pillows and giving her a sip of water before pulling the gaudy blankets over her reclining, naked body.

He snickered to himself as, tired and harrowed, she nuzzled into his hand before falling heavily onto her pillow, and smoothed his palm over her mussed hair fondly before stepping back and inspecting his handiwork, approving and no small amount weary himself.

“yeah… lay yourself down, gorgeous. ya did so fuckin’ good, you must be exhausted,” he muttered under his breath, watching her settle quickly into a heavy slumber (she must be in heaven at the moment, in those sheets, the first comfortable bed she’d had in far too long), before he turned his back on the bed and snapped his fingers at it, walking towards the sliding glass door that led to the balcony.

Behind him, he could hear the slither of the manacles on the headboard, sliding into place around his little human’s wrists in her slumber, and smirked to himself, pulling an open box of cigarettes out of his pocket.

Nice as this had been, and as often as he wanted to have such intimate sex with his soul mate… she still had to be taught her place. He was under no illusions that she had only been so compliant because of her soul’s urging, that she would return to her cantankerous self all too soon (likely the next morning)…

And he planned to punish her further, the moment she started getting on his bad side again.

Sans looked back at Frisk before he stepped outside for a much needed smoke, gaze lingering on her new bonds with pleased candor, before chuckling darkly to himself and turning to push the sliding glass door open.

“get some sleep… you’re gonna need it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Again, if you have any prompt ideas, please leave me a message here or on my Tumblr! All ideas welcome <3 and thank you for reading.


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